


Sherlock's Bane

by toggledog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 70,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toggledog/pseuds/toggledog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post ‘Reichenbach Fall’ John's friend, DI Toll, is brought onto a case involving murder and the destruction of a Mozart bust. He starts sexually harassing Sherlock. Toll being such a likeable guy, this appears to go unnoticed by everyone. Sherlock, himself just wants to work on the case and not cause trouble for John. However, the harassment starts getting more and more obscene…<br/>Based on a kinkmeme prompt.<br/>Rape recovery fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: Originally posted on fanfiction.net, but has since been tweeked. How did Sherlock fake his death? I have some theories but won’t be going into it, in this fic. Quite a few of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories are referenced in this fic.

Sherlock turned to him, as he entered the room. The violin was balanced delicately under his chin. The bow scizzored back and forth across the steel strings, creating an eloquent, yet mournful tune. Loud clapping sounded from television. John glanced to his right. On the screen, a rather muscular man was drinking a protein shake. Sherlock's melody ceased a moment, before a sharp swipe of arm signaled a final thrill of evocation.

"So a good night was had, I see."Sherlock remarked, placing the instrument back inside its case, at his feet.

"Ah, yes." In appreciation of the overly heated room, John pulled his woolen jumper over his head. "Always good to catch up with an old friend."

"I can see you enjoyed your pub meal. Parmigana." Sherlock sunk down gracefully into the couch.

John looked down at himself, attempting to discern any signs of what he had eaten, and then gave up.

"It was nice, yes. You'll meet him, soon enough. He was a DI in York. Got a transfer here."

"Yes you told me yesterday."

John collapsed on the couch next to him. "Oh really? I thought you weren't…" listening.

On the television, a fake tanned man with equally fake tan was talking very enthusiastically to an equally enthused audience.

"I find the lack of intelligence in our society so utterly unappealing. It's dreadfully depressing." Sherlock said.

"I'm sure a good case will come your way soon." John smiled.

Sherlock sighed sinking deeper into the fluffy cushions. After the Moriarty melodrama, he'd taken to fits of despondency. John had tried his hardest to talk to him about the positives. He had, after all, successfully faked his own death, and, beyond that, managed to clear his name, and move back into 221b Baker Street, reaquiring his old friends, (including his most frustrated best friend). Unfortunately, Sherlock had discovered evidence that Moriarty also faked his death and was now in hiding. John was quite sure he'd resurface at some point, however. Of that he had no doubt.

"Bored…" Sherlock said.

"A really interesting one."

Sherlock, ever given to dramatics, sighed louder and turned himself around on the couch, burrowing his face into the cushions. Taking it as a sign to go into his bedroom, John went to walk off.

"Where are you going?"

"To sleep."

He gained some satisfaction in having the upper hand that night.

###

The house was a drab, squalid affair, settled in between rows and rows of others of its ilk. There was already a small crowd gathered of eager eyed onlookers.

"Oh it's you." She said, as John and Sherlock stepped under the yellow police tape.

"A pleasure, as always, Sally."

"And where are you-?"

He ignored her, striding right up to the main house. John cast an apologetic look. She glared back.

"What do we have, Lestrade?" He asked the harried looking detective standing in the front doorway.

"I'd have to say that this is rather bizarre."

"Toby!" Sounded a voice behind them.

John turned and spotted a familiar figure stepping under the police tape.

"John!" Sherlock said, impatiently. John ignored him, stepping off the leaf scattered porch towards his friend. In his younger days, Toll had been a rather handsome man. However, age had turned his muscular frame to fat and receded much of his blond curls. He still retained the jocularity that sustained him, however. John could see from the instant gathering of people around him, that he was already rather popular. Indeed, he'd never seen Sally or Anderson more upbeat.

"Thanks for the cakes, yesterday. That was so thoughtful!" Sally fawned.

"Toby I checked out 'Mad Men' last night" Anderson said. "You were right. It was bloody fantastic!"

"I told you so." Toll smiled. "John!" He walked over and shook John's hand. "This is my good friend John Watson. We knew each other in school."

John sensed a sudden new appreciation from Sally and Anderson, in their faces.

"Righto. Let's see what's happening, here." He walked with John up to the main house, where Lestrade and Sherlock still stood.

"Ah Detective Toll. This is Sherlock Holmes."

Something came alight in Toll's pale blue eyes. John felt his heart sink. Of course. Toby had always liked pretty things. And John, of all people, certainly couldn't deny that Sherlock was… pretty.

Damned pretty.

Don't go there John, he told himself.

"Absolute pleasure." He shook his hand. "I've heard so much about you. And I bet you know everything about me." He winked.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up and down but he said nothing.

"As I was telling Sherlock, this is an odd one." Lestrade remarked. "It appears the owner, Horace Harker, interrupted a robbery in process, so had his throat cut. But the only thing that appears to have been taken is the bust of a Mozart head."

"Hm… that's the third in three weeks, isn't it?" Toll asked.

"Yes, how did you know that?" Lestrade looked impressed.

"I've been keeping up to date with unusual occurrences around town."

Sherlock shot Toll a look of extreme irritation.

"Certainly, that much is obvious." Sherlock started. John almost laughed out loud. He knew his friend. Sherlock didn't like to be trumped. "I should like to start by investigating the street outside. I would hope that your team hasn't destroyed evidence, as usual? Really, Lestrade you should have extended the police tape at least down the block."

Lestrade said nothing of Sherlock's outburst. Toll turned to Watson and winked.

"John, if you could examine the body for me and tell me what you find." Sherlock insisted. His eyes flicked to Toll once more, who openly smiled at him.

"Pleasure again to meet you." He stroked his hand down Sherlock's arm, before the man departed. It was a very subtle move. But John caught it. He felt something drop in his stomach.

It doesn't matter, he told himself. Sherlock isn't interested in… well, anyone, anyway.

Lestrade left them momentarily, as they shoved their protective suits on.

"Damn, John. Why didn't you tell me that your brilliant friend was so god damned pretty?" Toll whispered. "So, you shagged him yet?"

John winced. "Toby…"

"Sorry, sorry. It's just if that was my flat mate, I'd be shagging him every chance I got."

"Sherlock's… complicated."

"Hm… complicated I like."

John was about to reply when Lestrade stepped back in.

The examination of the body in the next room yielded little clues. The attacker was right handed, had sliced his throat with one quick movement from behind. The poor victim probably didn't know he was even being attacked until the last minute.

Poor bastard. John thought.

"Bloods been cleaned." Toll said. "Looks like the walls been repainted, even. Still, forensics should get a good-"

"Why must I work with such idiots?" Sherlock's voice rang from the doorway. "Lestrade, John and Toll, I guess. If you'd come with me."

John noted that Toll kept very close to Sherlock as they moved out of the house and across the garden.

"Are you going to tell us what's going on?" Toll asked, touching Sherlock again on the arm.

Sherlock ignored him, continuing to walk.

"John. What can you tell me about the body?"

John updated him, as they strode under the police tape and up the street.

"Where are we going, Sherlock?" Lestrade sounded irritated.

About half a block up, they stopped before a street lamp.

"Well, I'll be…" Lestrade said. Smashed under the lamp were the clear remains of a Mozart bust.

"The other two were busted as well." Toll said. Sherlock shot him a condescending look. He slapped Sherlock hard on the back. "Well done!"

His hand stayed on the other's back a little longer than necessary. Sherlock stepped away, a bewildered expression quickly suppressed.

"Lestrade, if you would be so kind as to inform the media that this event was the result of lunacy over deliberate crime, that would be a great help to me." Sherlock said.

"Now why the hell would I do that?" Lestrade said.

"Because it's necessary. I promise you, I should have the case solved by tomorrow."

"You know Sherlock-"

"If the great Sherlock Holmes deems it necessary, then I'll do it. After all, you did call him on this case for his genius, didn't you?" Toll asked.

"God help me, yes." Lestrade muttered.

"Then I'll speak to them now." Toll started to walk towards the gathering of people gawking up at the house.

"Come along, John. We've seen all we need to see here. I fancy a visit to Stepney."

"What's in Stepney?" Lestrade asked.

"Why, the factory that makes the busts is in Stepney. I daresay we'll find our murderer there."

John didn't even bother asking how Sherlock knew this, or what it even meant.

###

The visit to Stepney proved more than fruitful. Sherlock managed to wheedle information out of the factory manager about the recent firing of a young worker there. In a fit of temper, he'd broken three of the Mozart heads. Nothing had been heard of him since.

"So what do we do now? They said he'd cleared out of his apartment."

Sherlock looked thoughtfully out of the cab window. "Don't worry. We'll bring the killer to us."

"How? How do you even know it's him? And why is he doing this?"

Sherlock said nothing, simply smiled his enigmatic smile. He took out his mobile and tapped on it, evidentially searching for something. His smile grew broader.

"Yes, I think this should be cleared up by tomorrow."

"Oh I forgot to tell you. I invited Toby over for dinner."

"How exciting for me." There was no doubting the condescension in Sherlock's tone.

###

"Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked, after taking off his coat and scarf and hanging them by the door. John didn't even bother to ask why. He simply handed it over. Sherlock went into the other room.

"So, Toby will be coming at 7.30." He called through the door. Silence greeted him. "I thought I'd make chicken teriyaki. Can't promise it will be any good but… anyway was hoping you'd join us."

No reply. John shrugged and moved to the kitchen, frowning. He wondered how hygienic it would be to cook in there.

"I'm going to the…" shops. He called out again but decided against it. Sherlock wouldn't be listening.

Toll arrived at precisely 7.30pm. John admitted to being impressed. When he opened the door, he was even more impressed by the two bottles of merlot in his friend's hands.

"Been too long." John teased. Toll laughed.

"So, what's on the menu for tonight?" He asked, taking off his coat and looking for a spot to place it, before throwing it over the back of the couch.

"Chicken teriyaki." John wasn't going to tell him that he'd had to clear Sherlock's saucepan of eyeballs off the stove top and give it a very thorough scrub, before he could cook on it.

"Well, sounds good. Cos I'm famished. Should we pop open some wine?"

"Let me." He grabbed both bottles off the man.

"So, where's your great friend?" Toll asked, as they moved towards the kitchen.

"In his room. He'll be out shortly." John placed a bottle on the table, where he'd already set up three places.

"I'll just put this in the fridge." He was hoping not to be followed. If Toll got curious and looked inside, he may not appreciate another of Sherlock's experiments.

Luckily, Sherlock took that opportunity to emerge from his room.

"Sherlock. We meet again."

"Toll." He said, voice somewhat frosty. "How goes your investigation?"

"Toby, please. And let's not talk shop after work. It's boring."

John turned from where he was placing the bottle, amongst Sherlock's various human organs, in the fridge. He grinned to himself, catching Sherlock's face momentarily grimace, before righting itself.

"Would you like some wine, Sherlock?"

"No, thank you."

Toll poured a glass for him and John, and handed it to the man emerging from the kitchen.

"Are you sure?" He took a sip. "Might loosen you up a bit." Toll laughed. "It's ok!" He patted Sherlock on the arm. "I won't bite."

"Would you kindly refrain from touching me on the arm?"

Toll stared at him a moment, then laughed again. "Sorry, I'm just naturally a touchy feely kind of person. And it's natural, when you see something of great awe and beauty, to want to touch." He reached up and touched Sherlock briefly on the chest. The young man instantly drew back. John wanted to tell him not to worry. Toll liked to flirt but was essentially harmless. But, somehow the words died in his throat. No, it was more that he wanted to snap Toll's hand off. John internally shook himself, concerned by his sudden violent thoughts.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a very beautiful man, Sherlock?" Toll seemed genuinely curious.

"John, is dinner ready?"

"Relax!" Toll said. "Surely the great consulting detective can take a compliment?"

"Ah, sure. I can take it off the stove, now." John was, himself, feeling a little uneasy by Toll's flirtations.

Throughout dinner, Sherlock remained quiet. Toll endeavoured to engage him in banter and, having no luck, seemed quite happy to talk with John.

Finally, the meals were eaten (bar Sherlock, who took one bite and refused to have any more).

"Compliments to the chef!" Toll handed his plate to the standing John. "That was great."

"Needed less salt. More chili." Sherlock looked rather morose.

Toll laughed, reached across the table and grabbed Sherlock's wrist.

"What are you-?" Sherlock snatched his hand away.

"Such dainty fingers. Long, supple." He leant forward and whispered something that John, who by now was placing the dishes in the kitchen sink, didn't catch.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

John looked to the table.

It's fine, John, he told himself. Sherlock is a grown man. He can very much take care of himself.

"I meant things like playing the violin. Whatever did you think I meant, Mr. Holmes? Or, are you coming onto me?"

"You must be joking! I find you repulsive!"

"Sherlock!" John had warned Toll of Sherlock's straightforward nature. Still, he was not happy with the way this night was going. He wasn't even sure why he organized it. He thought, perhaps, that he should introduce Sherlock to more of his friends. Now, he was starting to think this was a bad idea.

"Alas!" Toll mocked a heart attack. "Beauty killed the beast."

John internally breathed out. It seemed, then that Toll wasn't offended.

"I don't have anything for desert…"

"Take the other wine out of the fridge." Toll suggested.

"Yes, please get more inebriated. It's simply fascinating to watch the de-evolution of the simple mind."

"I suspect our mind is simple, compared to yours." Toll admitted. "But I'm not inebriated. I hold my alcohol quite well."

John walked to the fridge and took the other wine out. He, on the other hand, did feel rather inebriated, indeed. He slunk back to the table, to Sherlock suddenly skittering back in his chair.

"What's wrong?" John asked. Sherlock's eyes flicked to Toll's.

"I've had enough of this horrendous evening. I'm going to bed."

"Need company?" Toll asked.

Sherlock said nothing, simply strode off without looking back.

John shook his head, pouring both more wine.

"I'm sorry, John but he's too easy to work up."

"What did you do, under the table?"

Toll put his hands up, pleading innocence. "I may have touched his foot with mine."

"Toby…" John frowned. "I know you love to flirt. And most people are fine with it. But Sherlock… I honestly don't think he likes it. Believe me, best not to annoy him."

"I'm only joking around." Toll protested.

"I know."

_Just don't lay your damned hands on him!_

John again internally winced, puzzled by his possessive thoughts.

"You ok?"

He forced a smile. "Fine."

###

The heavy drift of snow forbade Toll from leaving that night. With the knowledge that he was free of work the next day, John insisted he sleep on the couch.

He awoke the next morning to the glorious smell of pancakes. Bounding down the stairs, he tripped at the bottom, landing very badly on his ankle.

"You ok?" Toll asked.

"He's fine. Twisted ankle. Will be fine in a few minutes. "At the kitchen table, Sherlock hadn't looked up from his paper.

"Oh no… you didn't…" John rubbed at his aching ankle.

"Yes, I did see some very peculiar things in the kitchen cupboards. Sherlock explained. Experiments. Still, I did manage to find enough ingredients to make pancakes." Toll said. As though in answer, the fry pan sizzled.

"Oh." John limped over to the table. He could just make out a dark tuft of hair behind the newspaper.

"Alright, Sherlock?"

The man in question put the paper down. "I'm going out."

"No pancakes?" Toll asked.

Sherlock didn't answer. He simply left the room.

"He's like that." John sighed. He was somewhat relieved that Toll and Sherlock weren't in the same room anymore, and resolved to apologize to his friend, when he returned to apartment 221b.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had no reason, case-wise, to be using the riding crop. It was simply that today he felt a great inclination for it. Among other things, using it was a good way to pacify himself. He had charmed his way past Molly and now ferociously beat into the flesh of a cadaver. It gave him great pleasure to imagine he was beating DI Toll's face, rather than the body of an eighty five year old woman.

The man was an insidious creature, who had the effect of making Sherlock feel tainted every time he regarded him with his cold, flat eyes. Sherlock had been come onto before. With Moriarty, it was all part of the game. With Molly, it was infatuation. With Irene Adler, it was both. This man, however, was different. He seemed to take pleasure in causing him discomfort.

Initially, he wasn't even sure what was happening. Sherlock didn't have much experience in these matters. The touches at the crime scene could be passed off as accidental. He reasoned to himself that the man was clearly very tactile. (Though he saw no evidence of Toll touching others in such a constant fashion as himself. But he refused to dwell on this). Then, the night before, the man had been more obvious in his lewdness. Sherlock told himself that the man was inebriated. This would account for his actions. He would delete it from his mind. Only, he was finding it difficult to do this. His mind constantly flashed back on various scenes from that dinner, the foot running up his leg under the table. He beat harder into the corpse. Perhaps he should have been more vocal in his displeasure.

If it wasn't for John, he would have thrown the man out of the apartment.

He was trying very hard, of late to not upset him. Well, any more than normal, anyway. Particularly since the Moriarty incident, he'd felt a great fondness for John. He’d certainly missed him, in the months he was in hiding.

No, the man was drunk. That was all. That was what he told himself, at the time. He would allow John to have a friend.

He'd come out, in the morning, with the instant knowledge that the man had slept on the couch. Toll had been in the kitchen, looking through the cupboards.

"I would rather you wouldn't peruse my things." He had snapped.

"You could get into a lot of trouble for this." Toll held up a jar of ears. "All I'd need to do is make one call." His voice softened. "Tell me, Sherlock. What would you do to stop that from happening?" The pale eyes slowly moved up and down his body.

Sherlock had then felt an odd tightening of his stomach. That odd feeling of dirtiness washed over his body, once more. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself. "They're experiments. Lestrade knows about them. And he doesn't care."

"And the university you presumably got them from? I'm sure the relatives would be very happy to know what's happening to their loved ones."

"This conversation is boring me." Feigning disinterest, he slipped into one of the dining chairs.

Toll put the ears down, stalked closer. Sherlock felt his heart inexplicably beat in his chest. Refusing to yield, he deliberately kept eye contact.

"Really? Because you don't bore me in the least. I find you incredibly interesting. So, tell me, Sherlock," his voice lowered."Have you and John shagged yet? Come on, between friends."

Sherlock felt his stomach spike with an unfamiliar unpleasant emotion. "That is none of your business."

Toll laughed. "I take that as a no then. That surprises me, really. I told John I'd be shagging you all over the apartment if you lived with me."

Sherlock felt his face heat, his stomach twisting once more, as though someone had inserted a sharp needle and was turning, slowly.

_John's been talking about me, in this way?_

"You hold yourself in such high regard." He scoffed, pushing down the negative emotions bubbling in his stomach. "Surprising, considering how utterly grotesque you are." Sherlock then picked up the paper. He was inwardly thankful that the man didn't say any more. The man looked at the oven clock and took a pocket watch out of his pocket.

"That's clock's wrong."

"Ah Molly." Her soft familiar footsteps brought him back to the present. "Thank you for use of this body."

She regarded him with the mixture of awe and hurt that was starting to become characteristic of her. Today, Sherlock felt an odd affection towards her. In all her obvious crush on him, she'd never overstepped the line.

"How are the new puppies?"

Molly blinked. "How did you…? Ah good. I thought I'd keep one. Offer the rest to a purebred dealer."

Sherlock smiled. He thought of 221 Baker Street. How would Watson react if he brought one home?

Then started experimenting on it?

"I'll be upstairs. You don't mind making me a coffee, do you? Love what you've done with your hair today, by the way."

It was an obvious ploy but it worked. She blushed.

"Ah… sure. Sure."

#####

Sherlock twisted the focus wheel of the microscope, the lens beneath enhancing the fish food crystals, so they now loomed large before his eyes. The case involving the death of Horace Harker would be resolved that night. Upon leaving the house that morning, he figured he may as well work on another. A few days before, he'd spied the cold case on Lestrade's desk. Irritated with the detective at the time, he'd stolen the file (as well as pick-pocketed his police badge).

That night, on the guise of being a police officer, he'd searched the house of the wife of the deceased. It took less than five minutes to locate the fish bowl as the source of the crime.

The door leading to the lab swung open. He recognized her tread.

"Ah Molly!"

She placed the coffee by him on the desk. "Working hard today?" She giggle-snorted.

"Just solving a tedious unsolved murder from a few months ago that Lestrade has reopened."

"Really? Sounds interesting."

"Oh not really. The wife was the murderer. It appears she crushed the arsenic in the same bowl as the fish food. Dreadfully obvious."

"Oh?"

She appeared to be deliberately lingering, perhaps hoping for a response from him.

"Well, I'll… leave you to it."

He seated himself before the computer nearby, logging into his email account. Voices sounded from outside the hall. Molly laughed.

"Inspector!" She laughed again. "Sure. I'll see you around."

Sherlock felt all of his muscles tense up. Ignoring the anxiety now building in his system, he clicked into the webpage to start a new email.

The door to the lab opened once more.

This man is nothing to me, he told himself.

"Do you want to know what I know about you?" He typed up the results of the cold-case into the email for Lestrade, as he talked. "You come from a middle-class background but was educated in the more exclusive of schools. As a result, you grew up with a frustrated sense of entitlement. John used to idolize you. But something happened to change this. He no longer sees you in the same way and this annoys you. Your dad was an alcoholic. Perhaps even abusive." He finally looked away from his computer. Toll was eyeing him with the most peculiar of expressions. Yes, now he had the power. Sherlock continued. "Yes, was abusive. Physically."

"Impressive. Now tell me, how do you know all this?"

Sherlock smiled. He wasn't going to tell him he deduced all of this from his general appearance, the interaction between him and John, and his pocket watch.

"You look tense."

Sherlock felt all of his muscles lock as gentle fingers started rubbing his shoulders. He longed to move away from the disturbingly pleasant sensations but his body refused to obey his commands.

"I'm sorry about this morning." Toll said. "I went too far. It's just… you're a very sexy man Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand started to shake. He willed it not to. He willed himself to move. He was frustrated by his complete lack of control over his body. The hand went up to stroke his hair. Again, gently. Soothing.

"It's ok." Toll said. "Don't be scared. You amaze me. Yes, it's true. My dad was a bastard. Only John never idolized me. With that, you're wrong."

Soft lips touched the back of his neck. In that instant, Sherlock's paralysis broke.

"Don't touch me!" He pushed the man back.

Toll grinned. "It's ok, Sherlock. We're just having fun, right?"

Sherlock felt himself flush. He felt that his body had betrayed him, at the expense of his mind. He was feeling sweaty and shaky, not the in control man of merely minutes before.

Fun?

Sherlock didn't have much experience in regards to human sexual desires but he was aware, intellectually at least, that it was only 'fun' when both parties were enjoying the process.

"I would appreciate it if you would leave."

"Oh Sherlock. Calm down!" Toll laughed.

"Just LEAVE!"

"Ok! Alright." The man put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I did hear you were a bit socially awkward but really, Sherlock. This is ridiculous. I would think a beautiful man like you would be used to this kind of attention."

Sherlock could only stare at him in shock, his mind whirling.

Evidentially pleased by Sherlock's discomfort, Toll's smile grew wider. "Oh, the things I could do with you! I would have you screaming."

Sherlock felt his whole body start to shake. "Why can't you LEAVE ME ALONE?"

In that instance, the door opened. Sherlock experienced something he never thought possible.

Relief, upon seeing Molly.

"What's going on here?" She looked from one to the other, concern evident in her dark eyes.

"Damn, Molly." Toll thankfully turned his attentions to her. "Could it be you've grown twenty percent cuter since I last saw you?"

She didn't appear in the least humoured. "I heard shouting."

"We were just having a chat, weren't we, Sherlock? Case related. I'll be off."

Sherlock hoped that Molly would leave with him.

The door closed. Sherlock sat down in the chair and refocused his attention on the email.

"Sherlock…are you ok? Did something happen? You look a bit… shaken."

"I'm fine." He snapped. "Can you please leave?"

"I heard you shouting at Toll to leave." He could sense her discomfort.

"And now I'm asking you to do the same." He refused to look away from his computer. "Please!"

There was a brief hesitation. "Ok… just… ok Sherlock…"

Footsteps sounded and the door closed, leaving him in blessed silence once more.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock strolled into the apartment a few minutes past three. John instantly jumped up from the couch, book still in hand. In usual circumstances, and much to Sherlock's disgust, he could entertain himself for hours with a Steven King novel. However, today he simply couldn't get into it. So focused was his mind on what had happened the night before, that if Sherlock gave him a spot test on the last few pages he'd been reading, he'd most certainly fail.

"Sherlock. I- are you ok?"

His friend had such a disturbed look upon his visage that John felt compelled to ask.

"Fine." Sherlock moved straight past him, presumably to go to his room.

"Wait. Can we talk?"

"Yes?" He turned side on. The pale eyes drifted down to the book in John's hand, lip curling up in derision. John threw it down onto the couch behind him.

"Look, I'm I'm sorry about last night. Toby's behavior was inexcusable. He shouldn't have said those things to you. I told him this morning to stop harassing you."

"Ah, such a keen and insightful mind that one has."

John wasn't sure how to take that response. He decided to press on.

"He likes to flirt with people. And I think, sometimes he doesn't realize when he's overstepped the line. But he's a good man."

Sherlock now turned to fully face him, piercing him with his direct stare.

"But there's something about him that you don't trust."

Of course, Sherlock could easily deduce this. John considered whether or not to deny it, then decided it was useless.

"There was this kid in our final year of high school. Beaten to a pulp. There were rumours that Toby was somehow involved. Only rumours."

"But you believed them."

"I asked him straight out. He denied it. The boy, he refused to say who did it. Toby, he was so well liked To be honest, I don't even know why I thought it was him. Couldn't prove it, anyway. Well, I guess you could."

That, at least elicited a smirk from the genius.

"To be honest, John I'm utterly baffled as to what you see in the man. I find him to be a most repelling person. And I would appreciate him not coming over here again."

John winced. "Again, I m sorry-"

Sherlock waved him off. His phone beeped, signaling a message.

"Ah. Excellent." His focus was now completely on his mobile, as his long fingers typed a reply. John stood, unsure how to continue. Was this the signal, from Sherlock, that the conversation was over?

Foosteps sounded up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson's spritely step, followed by a heavier thud.

"Sherlock?" John said.

"Can you let Mr. Gilbert in, John?" He was still distracted by his mobile.

"Huh?"

"Sherlock. There's a visitor for you." Mrs. Hudson had reached the top of the stairs and stood in the open door way.

"Ah yes, I've been expecting someone, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock pocketed his mobile.

"Ah Mr. Gilbert?" Sherlock asked the squat, mustached man who came into the room, carrying a small case. "I'm Sherlock. This is my friend John Watson."

"Ah hello." The stranger shook both their hands. John could only watch in bafflement. This increased when the stranger opened the case and took out a Mozart bust.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Very sure indeed."

"Five hundred pounds, for this?"

Sherlock drew his wallet out of his pocket and opened it, fishing out five hundred pound notes.

"You've gotta be off your rocker, mate."

The brunet said nothing. Simply smiled. "Well?"

Mr. Gilbert shook his head and handed over the bust, swapping it for the money.

"Thank you for that, Mr. Gilbert. Mrs. Hudson will show you out."

John waited for the man to depart the room, before speaking. "Sherlock, what was that about?"

Said man was examining the bust. "This, John is the only remaining Mozart bust made by the Stepney factory. It took not too much of my incredible intellect to locate the owner. I called him today and offered him five hundred pounds to depart with it. Seeing as it cost only twenty to buy, I was assured of success."

"Why would you do that?" John now knew why the man thought Sherlock to be 'barking'.

"I also placed an ad online in the local trading post, offering to sell the same bust for two pounds."

"The killer responded." John was, as usual, impressed by Sherlock's brilliance.

"I wanted him to think that the police thought the smashing of the busts to not be a criminal matter, but just random actions of a psychotic. That way, he'd feel safer to start trying to locate the final one. He would have been checking online, in case it went up for sale. Much easier to buy it legitimately, then commit another robbery, particularly when one's wanted for murder."

"Ah, I see now why you told Lestrade at the crime scene that you wanted him to say to the reporters that the smashing of the bust was the random act of a lunatic."

Sherlock inexplicably walked over to the window. "Ah here we go."

John joined him. In the street below, Lestrade alighted his police car.

"Fantastic." Sherlock said sarcastically, as Toll got out the other side.

He slunk away from the window and perched himself at the end of the couch, throwing the bust up and down in his hands.

A few seconds later, heavy footsteps signaled the detectives walking up.

"Well?" Lestrade said, upon entering. "You said it was important."

"I also only told you to come." Sherlock glared at Toll.

"He's my partner, Sherlock." Lestrade's eyes flicked to the object in Sherlock's hand. "How did you get that?"

"In twenty minutes or so, a Mr. Kevin Johnson will enter the premises. Arrest him. He is responsible for the murder of Horace Harker."

Lestrade nodded. "Tell me."

John's eyes flicked to Toll. Was it his imagination, or did a flicker of utmost loathing momentarily pass through his eyes, directed at Sherlock?

"He was responsible for smashing the other Mozart heads, at the factory in Stepney-"

"We know this, Sherlock. We went to the factory, too. He was also our main suspect. It would make it a lot simpler if you share information with us." Toll remarked.

"But how did you find him?" Lestrade said.

Sherlock informed him about the online advertisement.

"But why murder Harker? And why smash the busts to begin with?"

"In all the other burglaries, the house was empty. Harker just disturbed him. Wrong place at the wrong time." Toll said. Sherlock looked a little taken aback.

"Precisely."

There was a momentary silence. "Tea, anyone" John asked.

###

John was pouring three cups, when the doorbell rang again.

"Ah, he's early."

Kevin Johnson was a very slender young man, surely barely past eighteen. Upon seeing the officers in the room, he attempted to run back down the stairs. Toll flew forward and tackled him to the ground.

"Get off me, ya bastard!" The youth cried out. "Bloody poofter!"

Toll handcuffed his hands behind his back and pulled him up. Kevin was still snarling, attempting to bite at those around him.

"Oh and to answer your question as to why he was smashing the Mozart busts. As you should already know, Mr. Johnson has rather a record for criminal breaking and entering, dating well before this time. There was an unsolved case, from a few months back, in the Stepney area, of the theft inside the house of a rather wealthy couple. Kevin here was the thief. He came up with the ingenious plan as to where he could hide his ill gotten gains. Not so ingenious, however when the Mozart bust he used got mixed up with the other busts in the factory. How exactly did this come to pass, Kevin?"

"Fuck you!"

"It was obvious from the fact that he had taken one out into the street and under a lamp post to smash it. I deduced that it wasn't about the busts, themselves, but what was potentially inside them. Not finding what he wanted after smashing all of the busts in the factory, he then had to find all the Mozart busts that had been sold, and smash them. "

Sherlock then held the Mozart bust up and threw it down, hard onto the floor. It splintered into hundreds of little pieces. Glittering amongst the white remnants was a handful of glittering jewels. John whistled. Was that diamond necklace? The bracelet had to be 21 carat.

"This would be worth millions!" Lestrade remarked.

"3.2, to be exact." Sherlock's eyes were affixed to the array of objects. "The couple offered a reward for the return of their items, many of which are sentimental to them. The reward is far more than five hundred pounds John."

John couldn't help it. He laughed. "Sherlock, you are priceless."

"So you have proved your genius. Congratulations!" Toll said.

Sherlock simply stared at him a long moment. John felt a sudden shift in the air. Lestrade, obviously catching it, gave him a puzzled look. John shook his head. 'I don't know'.

"Unlike you, I don't need to prove anything. That's why you became a detective, wasn't it? You had to prove you were better than them. Better than your abusive father. Better than your mother who tried to prot- no, she didn't try to protect you, did she? She let you take the abuse, as well as herself. And she blamed you for what he did. You should have been better. You should have been the one protecting her. Tough. Brave. Son."

There was a silence that could be only cut by a very serrated knife. It was broken by loud, braying laughter.

"Brave Detective!" Kevin laughed louder.

Lestrade strode forward and pulled him away from Toll. "You're coming with me!" He threw Sherlock one last appalled look, then started pulling the still laughing youth down the stairs.

All of the colour had drained from Toll's face. "You-"

"Toby " John had no idea how to finish.

Toll shook his head, and then disappeared out of the room, after his partner.

"Sherlock! Why did you do that?" John was trying to work past his stunned reaction.

"Oh, have I disappointed you?"

"Disappointed? Sherlock you can't talk to people that way."

"Why not?"

"You just humiliated Toby in front of not only me and his partner, but also a suspect. Amongst other things it's, well, it's completely unprofessional."

"And his harassment of me? Is that professional?"

John blinked. "So that's what this is about? He made you uncomfortable so you turned the tables?"

"Oh don't be melodramatic, John! I simply think the man is arrogant. He needed to be cut down to size a little."

"Arrogant? Look who's talking!"

"Ah, so here's where the name calling starts. Go on then. Defend your friend. Call me an arrogant freak. I've been called worse. Do your best."

"I'm not defending him. I'm just trying to find out what's going on." He paused, a horrible, sinking feeling developing in his stomach. "Did something happen that I don't know about?"

"What do you mean 'did something happen?'" Sherlock snapped.

John paused. "Something between you and Toby?"

"What so what happened last night wasn't enough for you? Of course nothing happened! I haven't even seen the man since breakfast."

John felt the feeling happily evaporate. "Good."

Both were silent a moment.

"I'm sorry I called you arrogant."

"Well, I am."

"But I don't think you're a freak. Ok, maybe a little. But then, so am I. An ex army doctor suffering from a psychosomatic limp. Yep, definite freak."

"You certainly have your moments." Sherlock smiled. "Let's not argue. We solved a case tonight."

"You solved a case."

"Why don't we get some food somewhere? You hungry?"

"Starving."

"I do know of a nice new Italian restaurant that's opened in the area. You can always tell a good Italian by the state of the second table to the front of the place."

John shook his head. If he didn't know any better, he'd be sure Sherlock was making this up.

###

"You sure you don't want anything?" John's mouth was full of pasta.

"I'm sure." Sherlock couldn't help but smile. He did, indeed, find his partner rather adorable, at times.

John swallowed, looked around at the other tables. More than a few held couples holding hands and looking into each other's eyes. "Anyone would think we were out on a date."

"Like I keep telling you. Dull."

"You must have been on them. Dates, I mean."

Sherlock steepled his fingers together before him on the table. "Not my area."

"So then how do you-?"

"How do I what?"

"You know have fun with other people."

"This is fun, isn't it?"

"I meant boyfriends, girlfriends."

"We've had this conversation. I feel no need to elaborate."

"So, you don't ever..."

"Don't ever what?" He was starting to feel exasperated.

"You haven't, have you?" There was no mistaking the surprise on John's face. "I can only think that must be through choice."

Sherlock smiled. "Mainly. Besides, who would want to date a freak like me?"

"Well, Molly seems pretty keen. So did Irene Adler. Come to think, so did Moriarty. That was disturbing."

"Yes, apart from them, and I'm not even going to dignify including your friend. Oh, and apart from yourself "

John laughed. "I told you, that wasn't..."

"Wasn't it?" He peered intently into the familiar face.

"Sherlock, I wasn't... look, you're a very attractive man but believe me, I wasn't asking. I barely knew you."

"You didn't know your last girlfriend that long before you asked her out." Sherlock ignored the knife that cut into his stomach at the thought.

"Well, you're different. I live with you. For one. It's a very complicated situation. We live together. Work together. I like you. A lot. And you're clearly a complicated man."

Sherlock's heart started to beat faster. John wasn't denying being attracted to him.

"You're fearful of the potential complications."

John put his knife and fork down. "I've had this happen before. Complicated situation. It went wrong. And I lost out. I refuse to let it happen again. For both our sakes."

"So you won't deny there's an attraction between us?"

John closed his eyes. "God help me. Fine, there's an attraction between us. "

Both grinned at each other."I wouldn't object if you wanted to take my hand. Or spoke to me the way that friend of yours does."

"Oh I don't think I have it in me to be that sleazy."

_No, this isn't going to happen. I can't be with anyone. I have feelings for John but no. I refuse._

"It's completely fine, John. Like I said, I'm married to my work. I wouldn't risk a relationship, either."

"It's fine. Fine. It's all good." John appeared to concentrate intently on his food. Sherlock tried to ignore the knife that was slowly turning in his gut.

###

Sherlock checked the chromosomal analysis of the fishbowl a final time, and then attached it to the email to Lestrade. He clicked 'send', and then flicked back to his main email screen.

Ah dull. An email from Mycroft. Something about government security leaks. Could he help? Sherlock deleted that one.

The door leading into the lab opened. Sherlock didn't even bother looking up.

"Ah, are we up to round two? Must have been terribly humiliating, last night. Tell me, when did Kevin stop laughing?" He looked up, grinning. Toll's features were twisted in an expression of extreme loathing.

"Has that been your plan from the beginning? To try and one-up the genius? Jealousy is such a common emotion. But then, you must have experienced a lot, in high school. All those other boys. So much better than you. Better families, better intelligence-"

"They were not more intelligent than me!"

"Ah you give yourself away."

"I've met people like you." Toll stalked forward. "The beautiful ones always think they can just walk all over us 'normal' people. I'm here to tell you-"

Sherlock clicked out of his email. "You bore me." He stood up and took his coat off the chair, shrugging it on. "Must dash."

He picked up his scarf. Toll very quickly crossed the space between them.

"Pretty pretty boys like you need to be careful."

The DI reached his hand around to squeeze at his buttocks.

"Touch me again with that hand and I will break it." Sherlock spat, pushing the man away from him.

Toll looked him up and down, a sneer developing on his lips. Sherlock quickly wrapped the scarf around his neck, willing himself not to shake with rage.

This man is nothing. Nothing, he told himself.

"You'll pay for humiliating me the way you did."

Sherlock ignored his vastly beating heart and laughed. "Ah reverting back to high school threats? You really are childish, Toll."

This man truly was pathetic. Utterly beneath him. If the only way he could gain power was through these absurd sexual come ones, then he truly was not even worth arguing with.

"You're going to wish we'd never met."

Sherlock didn't care to know what Toll was talking about. What's more, he refused to give this man any more time. He had been bested. That was that. The man could threaten all he wanted. But in the end, Sherlock had mentally laid him out. There was nothing he could do to beat that. He simply didn't have the intellect.

"Pray I don't see you around, Toll." He stepped out of the room before the odious man could answer.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Warning: Violent, humiliating rape occurs, in this chapter. On a lighter note, this one also references my fave Sherlock Holmes short fic- 'The Reigate Puzzle'.

He found it very difficult to sleep, that night. His mind kept returning to the conversation in the restaurant. Round and round like a merry-go-round that he couldn't get off, no matter how nauseous it was making him.

So, what was clearly obvious to everyone else was now obvious to him and Sherlock.

There was, indeed, an attraction between them.

And both had decided to do nothing about it.

After that awkward exchange, they'd moved onto other topics. In the taxi home, neither had spoken. Upon arriving at 221b Baker Street, Sherlock had rushed upstairs and into his room.

Not exactly the night of unbridled passion John had been fantasizing about.

John was starting to think that they had decided this far too quickly. Sure, the thought of being in another relationship with a man after Donald made his stomach clench in fear. But then, what was the alternative? It took a while to admit it to himself. He wanted Sherlock. No, more than wanted. Needed. Sherlock complimented him in ways he didn't think possible. The incident with Moriarty cemented it for him. When he had thought Sherlock to be dead, it was as though a part of him was missing, like he’d had an arm ripped off. Then, one glorious day, Sherlock returned, talking of faking his death, to protect John and Mrs Hudson. John’s initial reaction was to punch him. Then he drew him to a powerful embrace.

In this time, John came to an epiphany; he could not bear to be without the consulting detective.

Perhaps, last night, he should have explained to Sherlock about the first and, so far, only man he'd been with. Only Sherlock didn't ask him to elaborate, so he didn't.

Donald had been in the same class as him in Bart’s. They got on very well, to begin with. When Donald needed a lodger, it was fate that John was in need of a place at the same time. The place he had been living in had put the rent up to an obnoxious amount.

So, he moved in. After a few months, studying and living together turned to something more. They never had a 'honeymoon' period. From the beginning, they fought. One time, the shouting became so intense that the police were called. In all of this, despite all the time Donald was spending away from home, he never suspected that his boyfriend was having an affair behind his back. His other friends started warning him something was amiss. Finally, he confronted him. Donald broke down. Yes, he was seeing someone else. Yes, he was in love. John would have to find somewhere else to live.

Despite the arguments, despite the betrayal, John still loved him.

But Sherlock, Sherlock was so different to Donald, he told himself.

There was something almost broken about him. John didn't believe for a moment that he was psychopathic. He was simply a victim of his own genius. Indeed, John got the impression that the young man had been rather lonely for many years, desperate for someone to look up to him, converse with him. And now, he had him. That did send a comforting thought through his head, helping it ease to sleep.

###

The buzzing of his mobile finally woke him. He sleepily rolled over and pulled it from its charger, by his bed.

He'd missed a call from Toby.

John yawned, stretched and shoved on his dressing gown, walked past his mobile, then came back and took it off the charger.

The apartment was thankfully empty. He simply wasn't up for dealing with his errant housemate that morning. Mrs. Hudson had been very kind enough to leave fried eggs and bacon and a newspaper on the table for him. John shook his head. He'd have to repay the favour, at some stage. He thought of Mrs. Hudson's first husband. What had he done to warrant the electric chair? When she talked about him, it was always with such affection. John found it all rather curious.

He sat down and picked up the paper, placing his mobile before him, on the top of the table.

Toby… he probably should call him back.

"But there's something about him that you don't trust. What is that?" Sherlock had asked.

Yes, there was something niggling at him, when it came to Toby. There always had been. The more he thought about it, the more concerned he became. He liked the man… didn't he? Yes, of course he did. Toby was a good guy to have around. Funny, charming, intelligent… a damned fine detective. So why did he feel the need to constantly list his good attributes, as though trying to prove something to himself?

John wasn't the kind of person to believe in fate. So when his mobile then rang, the display showing that the caller was, indeed Toby, he thought nothing of it.

"John… how are you?"

"Fine. How are things with you?"

"Just getting ready for work. Thought I'd give you a quick call."

Was it just John, or did the man sound oddly nervous?

"Listen, John…"

"Toby, I'm really sorry about last night. Sherlock can be rather…"

"No, I wanted to apologize for my behavior. I've been acting rather unprofessional. If I made him in any way uncomfortable, then I am sorry."

John found himself at a loss for words.

"You surprised, John?"

"I... I guess I am. The other night…"

"Oh… well I can't speak for Mr. Holmes's actions. I can only speak for my own. And I suspect his were a result of my own?"

"Well, Sherlock does tend to act in rather peculiar ways." John admitted.

Toll paused."I am truly sorry. Can you tell him that? I think he's a remarkable man. I hold him in the highest esteem."

John nodded. "Of course I will." He inwardly cursed himself. This was a good man before him. Why did he continue to doubt this?

###

Sherlock got up very early, had a quick shower, then took a taxi to the Bart’s hospital. He picked up a very small breakfast in the cafeteria, before moving on to his favourite lab.

He was rather keen to use the excuse of work, to erase the conversation with John the night before from his mind.

So, that was that. Twice now, they had suffered a very excruciating conversation as to whether they should be together. The first time, in Angelo's restaurant, Sherlock was determined this wasn't going to happen. After all, he barely knew John. And he was rather sure that he liked him. He wasn't going to risk losing the one friend he'd ever had. This time… Sherlock wasn't so sure. This entire emotional quandary was playing havoc with his brain. Perhaps it wouldn't be as difficult, if Toll wasn't lurking in the background. Although pleased that he had bested him, he wished the man would simply leave.

Sherlock cursed himself for allowing his emotions to take precedent over his mind. He determined to have a productive day.

By the end of the working day, he had solved three cases of Lestrade's. The solution to the final murder case was so simple it almost irritated him. A man was found shot on his estate in Surrey. An ominous note, found clutched in the dead man's hand, was clearly written by two men, attempting to make it look as though only one had written it. Looking further into the circumstances surrounding the house, Sherlock was convinced it was written by the only other men who lived there- the deceased's father and brother. Sherlock shot off an email to Lestrade, asking for samples of each of their handwriting. Lestrade had then given the task to Anderson, who had been brittle, as usual, refusing to co-operate. Anderson had written a terse email to Sherlock, explaining that the police had better things to do than dig around old case files. Sherlock had then replied, stating that Anderson was a pig-headed idiot and he was amazed that he even became a detective to begin with. The force had very much lowered their standards. He'd cc'd in Lestrade into the email. Within the hour, Anderson had emailed back examples of the handwriting.

Molly came in around six, wearing a rather pretty summer dress.

"I'm finished."

"So I see." Sherlock was enthralled in an experiment, of his own making, involving studying the effects of stabbing the severed head of a corpse with various instruments.

"I'm going out tonight. Have a date."

"Oh, I dearly hope he won't be gay, as well. Particularly a gay criminal mastermind, like Jim was."

"You are such... such an ASSHOLE!" She stalked out of the room, slamming the door. Sherlock looked to where she'd left. He wasn't even sure why he'd done that. The truth was that he didn't detest Molly at all. She served her purposes.

Half an hour later, his mobile beeped. It was from John.

**You coming back for dinner? I can pick up some takeaway. Not up for cooking anything.**

Sherlock smiled to himself. Surely, by now, John knew that he never ate?

He started to reply, when the door opened again behind him. Upon hearing the click of the inner lock, he glanced up, stomach sinking. It was Toll.

"What is it now? I'm really not in the mood for-"

Pain exploded in his face, from where the fist struck, the mobile skittering to the floor. Though stunned by the unexpectedness of the blow, Sherlock was no stranger to grappling. Indeed, he managed to duck the next swing and come in with one of his own, slamming his own fist into Toll's solar plexus. The man doubled over, allowing Sherlock the opportunity to kick out, aiming for his groin. Only Toll moved at the last minute, so Sherlock only managed to catch his leg.

"You little bastard!" Toll flung his head back and slammed it hard into Sherlock's, knocking him backwards. Sherlock felt his head start to spin, pain radiating from his temple. Toll kicked his legs out from under him. Both fell to the ground, Toll's hands around his neck, squeezing. Sherlock felt panic rise inside him. Is this was this man intended to do? Kill him? This was insane! He kicked up uselessly with his legs, kicking at air, the man on his chest, crushing his breathing even more, knees pinning his arms to the ground. Saliva dripped down from the flushed man's mouth, dripping onto his face. Sherlock felt himself weakening. He gave one last kick up.

Then suddenly, inexplicably, Toll let go. Sherlock started to cough, to splutter, desperate to get air into his lungs. He was barely aware of being lifted, slammed onto his back onto the lab bench he'd just been working on, the equipment hastily moved aside.

"Toll…" He could barely breathe. His arms were hastily lifted high above his head. He heard the distinct jingle of handcuffs."Toll, no…"

The handcuffs clicked around his hands. Then Toll moved off him, surveying his handiwork. Sherlock, still coughing, attempted to move his hands. He deduced that they were attached, behind his head, to the metallic leg of the bench. Knowing it was useless, he attempted to free himself, slamming his body up and down. This only appeared to amuse the DI greatly, who laughed.

"Who'd have thought it, the great Sherlock Holmes at my mercy?"

"Toll…" His voice was raspy from the bruising to his throat. "Whatever you have planned-"

"What's that, gorgeous, don't do it? Leave you alone? Why would I do that?"

He swallowed. Whatever Toll had planned it wasn't going to be good for him. That was certain."Because it's wrong. You're a good man. I know you are. John knows you are."

Toll laughed once more. "John knows nothing about me. Nothing at all."

He suddenly grabbed Sherlock's shirt and yanked hard, the buttons popping off, flinging it open, leaving his chest bare. Sherlock felt his entire body go cold.

_No, he can't be thinking…_

"You don't need to do this. This proves nothing."

"That's the other thing about the pretty ones. They always talk and talk. Never know when to shut up!" Toll wandered out of his eyesight range.

"Toll… Toby. Think about your carrier."

_Surely, he can't be thinking of…_

Sherlock could not even fathom bringing the word to the forefront of his mind.

"Think about… my mum? But you know all about that, don't you Sherlock?" He came back into view, Sherlock's scarf clutched in his hand.

"Toby, you… please don't… let's just talk. You don't need to-" He shook his head back and forth, even knowing it was no use. Toll easily captured it, shoving the scarf into his mouth and tying it around his head in an effective gag.

Sherlock had never felt so helpless, so dependant was he on his intellect, on using words to get out of a situation. He shook his head, attempting to dislodge the thick wool.

"Forget it, beautiful. There's just you and me. The others in this area have left."

Sherlock flinched at the gentle hand running down his chest. "We're gonna have some fun. Or at least, I am." He leant in closer, lips barely touching the brunet's own. "I told you I'd get back to you for humiliating me."

Sherlock closed his eyes, attempting to distance his mind, as his trousers, then boxers, were yanked down and off.

_Someone stop this! Please, someone stop this from happening!_

He felt his face flush at the man's obvious leering at his naked flesh.

"Very nice. Very nice indeed."

He tried not to moan, as his legs were lifted, yanked brutally over his shoulders. He knew what this was. Knew the basic dynamics involved. Though he'd never attempted this, himself, he was aware that, within consensual partners, it could be fun. Exciting.

Only, this wasn't. He couldn't help a moan escaping his lips and hoped that Toll didn't hear it. He'd also seen enough cases to know what to expect when it wasn't consensual.

The sound of the zipper undoing sounded so loud in the quiet room. Sherlock breathed heavily. He couldn't seem to get the air in. He was suffocating.

"Relax…" Toll said, as he leant over him, gripping his leg with one hand. Sherlock felt him touch him and shuddered, moaning to himself once more.

This didn't happen. No, not to him. Not this man. No no no.

The sharp, intense pain as he was brutally entered, he could deal with. He'd felt pain before. Even excruciating pain. But this…the mental shock of it all. He couldn't fathom what was happening. _No, no no. Not to me. Stop stop. Please I can't…_

Only Toll didn't stop. He laughed, he grunted, he told Sherlock that he was 'good' and 'tight' a 'slut' and 'faggot'.

Sherlock bore it all as stoically as he could. He refused to scream but couldn't help but whimper with pain from every painful thrust.

"Enjoying this, Sherlock?"

He bit hard into Sherlock's clavicle.

_Should make a good impression for DNA._

The logical part of Sherlock's mind was still working, even in the horror of what was happening to him.

_Based on the level of pain, and obvious blood I can feel running down my leg, I will need two, perhaps even three stitches._

"To think, I'm fucking the great Sherlock Holmes. And he's just lying there and taking it!"

Chances of an STD are low but not improbable, he told himself. There will undoubtedly be more victims.

Victim.

He was a now a victim. He, the one who had outsmarted Moriarty, who had placed so many men behind bars was a victim to this pathetic man. This police officer.

Sherlock moaned loudly, tears stinging at the back of his eyes.

"Yes! Moan for me. I know you love it!"

This was not logical. How on earth could he be 'loving' this abomination?

This was, indeed, the worst moment of his entire existence.

He just wanted to die. If Toll took out his weapon and shot him, it would be a welcome relief.

_Please, just let it end._

As though he could hear, Toll shifted his body and gripped both his legs more forcefully, pounding into him even harder.

"Fuck yes… fuck, so good… oh…"

He started grunting once more.

_These are the sounds people make while copulating? It sounds disgusting. How on earth can people feel sexual desire from the sounds?_

Only, this wasn't about desire. He knew this. It was about power. Toll proving, once and for all, that he could best him. If he couldn't best him intellectually, he'd do it physically, the most humiliating and brutally he knew how.

Finally, the man cried out and Sherlock felt warmth inside him. He felt sickened at the implication. The man collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily against his skin. Sherlock wanted him off him; he wanted to go into a shower and scrub and scrub.

"Thank you, beautiful."

Sherlock couldn't help the shudder that moved through his body. Toll smiled and kissed him on the lips.

"That was special."

Toll pulled out, earning another flinch from the consulting detective and finally moved off. Sherlock let his legs flop to the ground once more, breathing heavily, eyes still squeezed shut, concentrating intently to cease the tears in his tear ducts from falling down his face.

"Look at you, lying there all wanton after a good, hard fuck. Such a good whore."

Sherlock refused to respond to the chiding. Even if he could speak, he had nothing to say to this disgusting man.

He shuddered as the man moved closer, tried unsuccessfully to keep his breath even. Warm lips touched under his chin. The feeling was almost pleasant. Toll undid the handcuffs. Sherlock instantly rolled over. His entire body trembled. He inwardly willed it to stop. Only it simply wasn't co-operating. He reached his hand around and untied the scarf from the back of his head. His favourite scarf. Given to him by Mrs. Hudson for helping out with her husband. He could no longer stand it. He'd probably burn it.

"Aren't you going to talk? Come on, usually you don't shut up!"

Sherlock refused to speak. He pulled the tattered remains of his shirt together and gingerly opened his eyes, looking everywhere but to the man standing to his left. His trousers and underwear still lay, in a heap, on the ground.

"You've learnt, haven't you? You've learnt not to fuck with me!"

Sherlock just wanted him to leave. He painfully slid off the bench he'd been forced onto and picked up his underwear and trousers. He then cursed himself for flinching at the hand reaching out and grabbing his arm.

"I'll take my leave now. Thank you for an entertaining evening. And by the way, don't bother to tell John. He won't believe you. And I'll deny it."

Sherlock finally looked him in the eyes. "There's evidence of what you've done. DNA evidence."

"Ah." He let his arm go. "So you would do that? Charge me? What a field day the papers would have. Sherlock Holmes accusing another man of rape." Sherlock flinched. "Can't say that would bode well for your ah consulting business."

Sherlock closed his eyes, once more. Toll was right. He could never tell anyone what had happened here tonight.

"Ciao Sherlock. I'll be seeing you again soon. You can be sure of that."

Sherlock shakily reached down to put his underwear and trousers back on.

###

Sherlock's favourite television programme, as far as John knew, was Jonathan Creek. Although he often solved the cases a lot quicker than the other curly haired detective, he seemed to like the character's similar arrogant, socially awkward nature. Or perhaps it was simply that it was the only show in which Sherlock didn't yell at the television.

Sherlock had watched two of the latest specials, and the odd episode he caught on television. John went out and bought the first three seasons for him. Together, both had gone through the first four episodes.

Figuring Sherlock to be a fan of Alan Davies, John had tried to introduce him to QI. It was clear, within minutes of watching an episode, that Sherlock was not only bored but immensely irritated. As he explained to John, he didn't need useless information clogging his brain. John had instantly switched it off and put on another episode of Jonathan Creek for him.

John, on the other hand, did not have an aversion to QI and figured that seeing as Sherlock wasn't home, and it was the only decent thing on television that night, he'd watch it.

Steven Fry was in the middle of explaining something quite interesting about ducks, when the key turned in the lock. John reached for the remote and instantly switched the television off, scolding himself for his reaction. It was, after all half his apartment too. He should be able to watch what he bloody well pleased!

He jumped up, inexplicably irritated with Sherlock. This instantly evaporated upon seeing the detective. He walked slowly, gingerly, slightly bent over. A giant bruise marred his face.

"Sherlock! What happened?" John instantly rushed over, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Sherlock violently flinched away.

"Nothing! I-" His voice sounded oddly gruff.

"Sherlock, you're bruised .You've clearly been beaten."

"I was mugged. A couple of guys on the way home."

"Have you called the police?"

"No need. Just-"

"Sherlock!"

"I told you, I'm fine."

There was something wrong with his voice. It was raspy, as though he could barely get the words out.

John felt a coldness sweep over him. Something was very wrong.

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. At least let me examine you." He reached for him, once more.

"No!" Sherlock violently recoiled away, once more. "I told you, I'm fine. I just need to rest."

"Sherlock, you could have internal bleeding. Let me-"

Sherlock's eyes caught his. The blood drained from his face. Suddenly, the consulting detective was fleeing the room.

"Sherlock?"

John's heart pounded.

He heard the bathroom door close, the sound of retching following.

The coldness that had overtaken turned into a freeze. John's stomach clenched.

The retching seemed to last a very long time. Finally, the toilet flushed, the tap ran.

Sherlock opened the door to the bathroom. Dark circles underlined his eyes. His hair was stuck up at odd angles. "John, I think I need a shower. If you don't mind."

Internal bleeding, John thought to himself. That's what made him throw up.

He felt his innards turn to water. It was just a thought. Surely a silly thought. If Sherlock says he was (merely) beaten, then that must be true.

"Sherlock, why won't you let me examine you?"

He'd been beaten up before. Every time he let John examine him. Every time, he seemed unaffected.

"Sherlock…I've seen a lot of things as an army doctor."

"What are you talking about, John?" He looked tired.

_Oh god, please don't let it be true._

"I told you, John. It's fine. He just took me unawares. Knocked me around a bit. But I'm ok."

He. Before, Sherlock had said it had been a couple of guys. The detective consultant must have been frazzled, indeed, to make that mistake.

"I had a man once who came to me. Had been beaten up. Refused to be examined-"

"John, I-"

"My C.O said nothing could be done about it, so we had to let him go. A few days later, he committed suicide. Left a note. Turns out, he'd been raped, by the bloody C.O. Can you believe that one?"

Sherlock displayed no reaction.

"I'm not discussing this with you, John."

John tried a more direct approach. "Sherlock, did someone force themselves upon you tonight?"

The flinch told him all he needed to know.

_I'm going to kill the bastard!_

"Who was it?" He couldn't keep the anger out of his voice.

"Forget it, John."

"No, I'm not forgetting this one. Tell me who it was, Sherlock!"

_Not Sherlock, not brilliant, eccentric, beautiful, funny, crazy Sherlock Holmes. I'll find the bastard and tear their arms off!_

"I told you! I don't know who it was. Please, John just… I need to shower."

John's entire body shook with fury. _God, I'm going to be sick_.

_No, I need to attend to Sherlock._

"No, if you shower, you’ll remove evidence. You know this, Sherlock.”

Footsteps sounded up the stairs. The familiar knock on the door signaled Mrs. Hudson.

_No, no not a good time. Not a good time at all._

He crossed the floor, to yell through the door. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It's not a good time."

"I've just finished an apple pie and made a spare for you boys, if you'd like it."

“Ah… that’s alright.”

He glanced at Sherlock, who stood in the centre of the room, a disturbing blank look on his face.

"Is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

_Oh everything's great. Sherlock's been beaten and raped. And won't tell me who did it. But apart from that…_

“It’s fine. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson” He turned back to Sherlock.

“I need to shower.” Sherlock repeated, in the same, emotionless voice.

“Ok, what we need to do is go to the hospital-“

“No hospital. John, no one can know…”

"Listen, Sherlock…" He frowned. "As a doctor, I need to be direct with you. How hurt are you?”

"I'm bleeding…" Sherlock's voice broke.

"How badly?"

"I'll need stitches."

John swallowed. He longed to reach out and touch Sherlock, reassure him. But also knew that this would be the last thing the consultant wanted.

"Ok… did he use protection?"

Sherlock was still a moment, and then slowly shook his head.

John expected as such but it still did nothing to lessen the chill raging through his body.

"Ok… then there may still be some DNA-“

"I'm not going to press charges."

"Sherlock. This is a criminal offence!"

"I'm not going to press charges."

John took a deep breath.

“Right, well I’ll ring for a taxi and-“

"I told you! No hospital."

"Sherlock! You're bleeding. You could get infected. I can do what I can-"

"No! Please, I don't want you to see… what he did to me."

John felt his eyes prick with tears. _Keep yourself together._

"There is a man… he'll be discreet. I trust him." Sherlock reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his mobile, typing on it. John noted the bruise, marring the high cheekbone and felt the rage rise once more.

_You're no good to Sherlock if you become enraged._

Sherlock handed the mobile over.

"Call him. Don't tell him what happened. Just, tell him to come here."

John frowned. He would prefer to go to the hospital. But, then, if Sherlock didn’t want to he wasn’t going to force it. Particularly, considering _why_ he wanted to go. He looked down to the name in the viewfinder screen.

Of course, he knew this man.

John pressed the little green button.

Mike Stamford answered within three rings.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_Come on, come on. Pick up._

"Hello?"

_Oh thank god. He answered._

"Mike! It's me, John."

"John? How are you? It's been-"

"Listen, Mike, it's an emergency. I need you to come to 221b Baker Street, straight away."

There was a very slight pause. "What's wrong, John? What happened?"

John glanced across to where Sherlock lay side on, curled up on the couch, staring mournfully back at him.

"I'll explain when you get there. Bring your medical bag."

"Is it Sherlock? Did something happen to Sherlock?"

John closed his eyes. "Yes. He's been hurt. Real bad."

A child giggled in the background, followed by the soft tones of a woman. Was Mike married? He never thought to ask.

"Ok, I'll be there in an hour or so."

John let out all of his breath.

"Thanks so much."

"I'll see you soon, John."

_Good ol' Stamford. Always reliable._

John pressed the little red phone icon to end the call and turned back to his housemate. So, the only thing to do now was to wait.

"He'll be here in an hour."

Sherlock nodded.

"Do you need anything?"

"Your revolver to my head?"

John winced.

"No, I'm fine."

"Sherlock…" John walked over and knelt before him. "Sherlock, tell me what happened tonight."

Sherlock continued to hold him in place with his wonderful pale eyes.

"No John."

"Why won't you…?" _let me in. Please._

"It doesn't matter. What's done is done."

"It does matter! Sherlock, someone _forced_ you. _Raped_ you. It bloody matters!"

The consultant determinedly turned his face towards the window.

"Damn it!"

_He's already starting to shut me out._

Sherlock scooted up as John collapsed onto the couch next to him, frustratedly running a hand through his hair.

"I am already experiencing the first stage of post traumatic shock. The numbness is, rather liberating, in a way." Sherlock said, with a rather detached voice.

John didn't want to hear this. He knew about PTSD. Knew about it all too well. But not Sherlock. No, anyone but Sherlock.

He jumped when he felt something touch his leg. Looking down, he realized, with a start, that it was Sherlock's head. His long legs were drawn up to his side and his head now rested comfortably on John's lap.

"Sherlock…" He longed to touch him, reassure him. Very gently, he placed a hand on his arm. Sherlock flinched. "I'm sorry." John instantly pulled away.

"No, no it's ok."

John rested his hand gently on his arm, once more. He longed to touch his hair, stroke it, feel the way the strands twisted and curled in his fingers. But he dared not.

Both lay there for a long time. Not moving. Not speaking. Really, what was there to say? John wasn't going to placate him, give him words of reassurance, tell him that it was going to be alright. Because he knew it wouldn't.

Finally, there was a sharp knock on the door. Sherlock moved up, giving John space to leap from the couch. He strode over to the door and opened it.

Mike had lost a bit of weight.

"John." Both shook hands.

John ignored the guilt cutting into his stomach, as he led the doctor into the apartment. He hadn't seen him in over six months. Damn, if anything, he owed this man everything he had.

Sherlock was already standing. He reached out and shook Mike's hand.

"So… what's going on?" The professor asked.

"Earlier tonight I was attacked and… sexually assaulted. I have no wish to go to the hospital. I would like you to examine me. I have no doubt I'll need stitches and antibiotics to prevent infection."

John inwardly cringed at the aloof way Sherlock was talking about his own rape. If Stamford was feeling sickened, he hid it well.

"Ok, well… how about if we go into the other room?"

Sherlock nodded. Stamford flashed John a look then. It was momentary but John caught it. Fury, shock. Sadness. Then the mask was on, once more.

Both moved to Sherlock's room, the genius still moving very slowly, gingerly. The door closed behind them. John felt like kicking the furniture.

He had never felt more helpless. Even having a bomb jacket strapped to him was better than this. He'd take six bomb jackets to not have to deal with what had happened to Sherlock.

What to do? He thought about contacting Lestrade. But then thought against it. That would be a betrayal of Sherlock's trust. And, in the consultant's current vulnerable state, he wouldn't deal well with betrayal.

He went into the kitchen and started filling the sink with water. Sherlock wasn't particularly finicky with house cleaning. Indeed, the dishes hadn't been washed in a few days. They took a good twenty minutes to do and were a welcome distraction from his circular thoughts. He stepped back into the lounge and glanced at the closed door. What was going on in there? Was Sherlock ok?

No, stupid thought. Of course he wasn't.

John switched on the television. Nothing was on. Nothing worth watching. Nothing to take his mind off the fact that the one person in the world he cared for, would give his life for, had been violated.

_Don't think about that. Think about what you'll do when you find the man responsible._

Finally, the door opened. Stamford stepped out, mouth set in a thin line of grimness.

"Well?" John jumped up from the couch.

"I've given him a sedative. He's sleeping."

"Tell me everything. I need to know."

Stamford's frown deepened. "He needed stitches. They will dissolve but it will take up to a week for him to heal. He'll need to watch what he eats. Only liquid foods for a week. But you would, of course, already know this." He ran a hand through his hair. "He's got a nasty bite mark on his clavicle. I disinfected it. I also took a blood sample. I'll send it to the lab to test for STDs. He's also got extreme bruising around the throat. He says he was strangled." John's shocked mind processed this new information. Though John had heard the gruffness of his voice, Sherlock had not remove his characteristic blue scarf, since returning from St Bart's.  _Strangled. The bastard._ Stamford continued, ignoring John's expression. "But no serious damage has been done there. I also did a full rape kit. There’s quite a bit of evidence. Foreign saliva, semen, the bite mark might even yield some good evidence-"

 _This isn’t happening._ John felt far away. "He said he wasn't going to press charges."

"I wish he would. And go to the hospital. But I know he won't. Thankfully, he's in good hands with you. I'm more worried about his psychological state. As well as yours."

"I'll be fine." John said gruffly.

Stamford frowned. "I've written out a prescription for some antibiotics. Chances are against infection but we just need to be sure. I…" He looked down at his watch. "I really should get back. I told Sherlock I'll return tomorrow to see how he is."

"Ok."

John walked him to the door.

"Thanks, Mike."

The portly man turned to him. "I'm really sorry this has happened. If you need anything. Anything at all, don't hesitate to ask."

John nodded, closed the door behind him. He watched, through the window, Stamford cross the street to his car. _Good man, that one._

For a moment he stood, indecisive, then crossed the floor, down the hall to Sherlock's room. He knocked lightly. No response. Slowly, he opened the handle, looking in. He could only see a tuft of dark hair, under a heap of covers. He slowly closed the door and moved back to the lounge.

One thing was certain. He wasn't going to sleep, that night. He was too wired up.

He collapsed on the lounge chair and turned on the television, once more. Again, nothing was of interest to him. So, he moved to the bookcase. No good books. Not even a pulpy Steven King or John Grisham would entertain him.

What the hell were they going to do? Sherlock Holmes, one of the most brilliant minds, indeed the most daring, dashing, eccentric man he knew humiliated in the worst way possible. Though he knew, as a doctor, the reactions victims had to such a travesty, he also knew that Sherlock was not like other people.

He could only think that he was going to be in for a rather painful next few months, particularly as Sherlock went through the acute phase of the trauma.

###

Cognition slowly came to him. He wasn't fortunate, that night, to experience the whispery cobweb of sleep slowly envelop him. The last he remembered, he was seated on the couch, head pounding with obtrusive thoughts.

John groaned, feeling the muscles in his back stab with pain from the awkward position he'd been in all night.

"I would have moved you to a more agreeable position."

John jumped, gave a little squawk of surprise. Mycroft stood in their kitchen. He'd obviously managed to locate the teapot and was currently pouring two cups of tea.

"Only you showed signs of awakening within minutes, so I thought it best to leave you be."

"How did you…?" _get in?_ John shook his head, stretched. There was no point in asking such redundant questions, when it came to one of the Holmes brothers.

"Sherlock is still sleeping rather soundly and I would not disturb him, for the moment." Mycroft came over to John and held the cup and saucer towards him. "I know you don't take milk." He smiled. John didn't bother asking how he knew this. He took the saucer from him. Mycroft settled down in the armchair opposite. John took a sip of his tea. The fact of Mycroft being in the apartment could only mean one thing. He knew. This meant Stamford had told him.

"You needn't be concerned about Stamford. Oh, my men did interrogate him. But he refused to divulge any details. He remains, as you, irritatingly loyal to my brother. No, Mr. Watson to me it is obvious what happened." He gently placed his tea and saucer on the small table by the armchair he was sitting on and leant forward, hands clasped together, in a fashion reminiscent of Sherlock. "It would come as no surprise that we have been keeping an eye on you and Sherlock. When Sherlock came home last night, the CCTV footage showing him clearly injured and walking with a limp. Then, within hours, Stamford arrived. Certainly, if the injury was truly grave, then you would force him to the hospital. I know my brother. He can be rather impertinent in these things. But I also know you, Dr. Watson. You would not take any other answer. If the injury was minor, then obviously you, as his doctor would take care of it. So, the injury must be one in which he does not want you, or indeed any outside source, to know the true facts of."

John closed his eyes. Of course. Mycroft knew his brother better than anyone.

"If it were my prerogative, I would deal the beast who ahem…" He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "Violated my brother a very nasty blow indeed. But, it isn't my call."

"Mycroft…" Both turned to Sherlock stepping into the room. He clutched his silk dressing gown to his chest. John saw the purpled bruises around his throat and pushed down his sudden rage. "You're right. None of this is your call, or, indeed, your business. I would like you to leave."

"Don't be silly, Sherlock." Mycroft scoffed. "I've just boiled a pot of tea for all three of us."

Sherlock scowled and grumpily stormed over to the teapot, still on the kitchen bench. He glared at Mycroft, as he poured himself a cup.

"I see the diet isn't going too well. You've put on six pounds since I last saw you."

Mycroft said nothing, simply smiled. He waited until Sherlock collapsed on the lounge next to John (again in a sideways fashion. John inwardly winced at the implication).

"I trust the immediate physical aspects of what has happened have been dealt with by Stamford. A wise thing to not go to the hospital-"

"A wise thing?" John couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"If it were to get out publically that Sherlock was…" He seemed to have trouble saying the word. "Raped, it would create a media frenzy that would only impede his chances of good psychological recovery."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "For once, we agree."

"Sherlock-" John began.

"In terms of your psychological recovery, I will recommend a good psychiatrist-"

Sherlock laughed. "Have you forgotten the last time I saw a psychiatrist, Mycroft? The one and only time. You don't recall how he forbade me to ever come back to his office."

Mycroft adjusted his tie, once more. "This man is not only a personal friend of mine but esteemed in his profession-"

John couldn't get his head around how cavalierly Mycroft was talking about Sherlock's rape.

"I'll… think about it." Sherlock scowled once more.

"You won't think. You will do. Don't make me-"

"What force me?" Sherlock spat. For a split second, Mycroft's composure was utterly ruffled. Though his face didn't move, his eyes showed complete disharmony. Then he was the same stoic man again.

"Perhaps this can be a conversation for another time. What I do want to discuss is what we are going to do with the perpetrator. I'm certain John has some ideas. I have others. It's ultimately up to you. It did, after all happen to you."

Sherlock's pale eyes hardened. "We're going to do nothing."

"Come now, Sherlock. Why are you protecting John? Don't you think he'd rather know?"

John felt a queer up rate of heart rate. "What's going on?"

"What's going on is Mycroft is leaving." Sherlock stated.

_Protecting me? Why would Sherlock…?_

The thought came to him. No, not a thought. A truth. A reality.

"Yes… I think you should… I'll ah show you out." Mycroft's intense stare at Sherlock switched to John. He finally bowed his head, evidentially surrendering. He stood up.

"I will be over tomorrow. I will not let what happened to you go unpunished, do you understand, Sherlock?"

The genius looked away, and then nodded.

The ugly feeling still gathering in his throat, John walked Mycroft down the stairs.

"You know who it is, don't you?"

"From my observations, there has been only one man, new to the scene in the past few weeks, who has been odious enough towards Sherlock to perpetrate such an attack."

"Oh god…" John felt like he'd been sucker punched. He leant against the wall for support. "I'm going to kill the bastard!"

_He was right there. Right before me. I could have stopped it, at any time. Only I didn't know. I thought he was rather repulsive, sure. But I never thought that he'd…_

_I'm going to be sick._

"When you go to Toll's apartment, I would prefer it that you don't kill him." Mycroft reached out is hand towards John. "Take care of my brother." John shook his hand. His head felt like someone had given it a hard whack with a hammer. "I know that you will."

John watched the stately man elegantly walk to the waiting car, then closed the door and slowly made his way up the stairs. He needed to know for sure. Needed to hear Sherlock say it.

Sherlock was still sitting awkwardly on the lounge chair, flicking through channels.

"My brother can be-"

"It was Toll, wasn't it? Tell me the truth, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "You are joking, right? Toll? Do you think I would let that idiot within five metres of me? No, Toll doesn't have the brainpower to… to do what the person did."

"Mycroft said that-"

"My brother just wants an easy solution. Don't fret, John. It wasn't your moronic friend."

"Sherlock, you don't need to-"

"I swear it to you, John. It wasn't Toll."

John huffed in frustration. Surely, Sherlock was lying to him. Only he wasn't certain as to why.

"I'm going out. Need some fresh air."

He hurried out the room before Sherlock could answer.

###

He'd only been to the apartment once before. It was one of those obtrusively ugly affairs. Blocky brassy metal exterior nestled amongst Victorian splendor. It had saddened John, at the time, that the original owner had evidentially knocked down the original building to create such a monstrosity. He had been thankful that Toll had, at least, tastefully furnished the inside with sparse yet elegant modern furniture.

John hadn't purposefully set out there. He had simply travelled the streets of London, mind still whirling. It was a good ten block hike but his instincts had unnervingly brought him to the place.

He wasn't thinking what he would do, as he rang the doorbell. He simply needed to know the truth. There was a long pause.

_Idiot, John! It's a week day. He will be at work._

The door opened. Later, John would concede he really had no choice in the matter. Upon seeing Toll's face, he felt indignant rage pump through his veins.

"You bastard!" He pulled his arm back and slammed his fist into the man's nose, feeling dim satisfaction as it crunched, spouting blood. Toll squealed, falling back into the apartment, cupping the damaged appendage.

"John, what-?"

John followed inside. "How could you do it?"

He swung again. Only, this time, Toll was prepared. He caught John's arm and spun him around, twisting it behind his back.

"Let go of me, you sick bastard!"

"What the hell is going on? What the fuck, John?"

"Sick fucking bastard!" John struggled in his iron hold.

"You just broke my fucking nose!"

"Good! That's just the first. When I get free I'm going to break every bone in your body."

"Wait! Wait! Just… let me put up a white flag for a second." Toll released him. John spun around. Both stared at each other, breathing exerted.

"Say it!" John said.

"Damn it, John." Toll was still attempting to stop the flow of blood.

"Tell me what you did to Sherlock!"

"Sherlock's been hurt? And you think that I was the culprit? How could you think that?"

_No, no don't talk your way out of this. Don't-_

"What happened?"

John refused to answer.

"John, I may have my faults but I would never…"

"Stop fucking lying!"

"I'm not… John I have no idea what you're talking about."

The truth was, he looked as though he was completely bamboozled. Was he, indeed, such a great actor? John found himself starting to be unsure. Could it be that Mycroft was wrong?

"Sherlock's been… attacked."

"Oh no. And you thought…? John, I like Sherlock. I would never… what happened? Have you told Lestrade?" He did, indeed look utterly concerned.

_No, this can't…_

"I need to… I need to leave."

"John-"

He rushed out of the door.

###

Sherlock had no doubt that it wouldn't take long for John to suspect the truth. The man was, after all, no fool. Perhaps it was not right to outright lie to John, when asked outright who the perpetrator was. But Sherlock found that, even when asked directly, he couldn't bring himself to say… to admit to himself that this man, this man who had been so beneath him, could destroy him in such a way.

John no doubt would go see Toll, try get the truth from him. And Toll would be very convincing in denying what had happened. It was a tossup whether John would believe it.

Sherlock gingerly walked over to look out the window. If only something dramatic would happen. A nice shoot out in the street. Something to distract him-

_"To think, I'm fucking the great Sherlock Holmes. And he's just lying there and taking it!"_

_No, no leave me be. Get out of my head!_

The beep of his mobile turned him to where he'd left it, by the couch. It would certainly be Mycroft, checking up on him. Again.

His brother's concern was another irritation added to his already stressful existence. He slowly moved back to the couch. He didn't want to think about psychiatrists and the 'healing process' because that would entail the thought that something was wrong with him, something broken that needed to be fixed. And he wasn't broken. No, he would not let Toll win. He may have forced his body but he would not force any other aspects of his life. He would be fine. He was fine.

_"Yes! Moan for me. I know you love it!"_

_Pain, so much pain. He could handle pain, sure. But this… no, don't even consider it, Sherlock. Delete. Delete it all._

He picked up the mobile and clicked into the message, then smiled to himself. The number was blocked. But there was no doubt as to who the sender was. This was, indeed, interesting.

**Patience, lovely. The game will recommence soon. Before then, be assured that he will regret even so much as touching a single hair on your beautiful head.**

**M.**

Sherlock placed the mobile back on the table and curled up gently on the couch, mindful of his injuries. He closed his eyes, hoping that John would return soon.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Though not analytical, like Sherlock, John thought of himself as the kind of person who was conscious of his surroundings. This was essential on the battlefield; compartmentalizing, separating the intellect from the emotions. Only, of late, everything had gone awry. The grizzled soldier should have been aware of the car discreetly following him, as he walked down the cobblestone street. Instead, his mind was twisting itself into tight little knots. What was he going to do? How to convince Sherlock to tell him the truth? It's Toll, he told himself. You know it. However, he couldn't just accuse a man without evidence. But, it seemed so right... didn't it? Could a friend of his really be capable of such an atrocity?

Rushing footsteps sounded behind him. He turned swiftly, as one man grabbed one arm, a second grabbed his other.

"What the- let go of me!" He snarled, struggling vainly as the men forced him towards the waiting car, behind them. "Help! Let go of me!"

The street was completely empty. Not a curtain swished from any of the surrounding houses. Sherlock had always said he trusted old ladies over any eye witness.

He felt a sharp jab in the back of his neck and realized, with horror, that he had been stuck with a syringe. Whatever the substance was, it was already starting to take effect, his muscles lethargic, his mind foggy. His doctor's mind went through the possibilities as to what he had been jabbed with. Only it was difficult to concentrate. His body felt as though it was trying to move through solid cement. _So weary… weary… no!_ This wasn't Mycroft, he knew that much. It only led to one other possibility.

###

He came to, in increments. First sound, lower, then getting progressively louder. Constant. Droning. A vent of some kind. He was in a seated position, his hands still feeling like they'd been weight down… obviously the drug had… no… burning, as he attempted to move them. Likewise for his feet. Bindings, then. He slowly opened his eyes. A warehouse came into view, not unlike the one he had first seen Mycroft in. A massive space of concrete floors and corrugated ductwork above. Busted farm machinery sat to the side.

The room held only three other people. One sat in a chair before him. The other two, the ones that had kidnapped him, stood behind him.

The man in the chair smiled. The sick jerkwad who had tried to discredit Sherlock, to drive him to suicide. John instantly started struggling, crying out.

"You bastard! I'll kill you! You sick fucking-"

"Oh, the pet is rather rambunctious tonight, isn't he?" The man laughed. "Clive, if you don't mind…"

The kidnapper to the left came towards John then, a filthy looking piece of cloth in his hand. John moved his head vehemently back and forth.

"Wait, wait… don't." His words were to no avail. The cloth was shoved into his mouth. Duct-tape closing over it, sealing it completely.

"Ah, much better. Now, we talk. Or rather, I do."

John ceased struggling. What was the point? He would do what he wanted, anyway. What the hell did he want? Why couldn't he just leave them in peace?

No, he knew why. The game. Always the game.

"Now I am rather displeased to hear that my Sherlock is out of action."

John bristled at the use of the words 'my Sherlock'. Evidentially, Moriarty noticed it, for his reptilian smile grew even wider.

"And to discover that your friend is the cause… well, doesn't that just take the cake?" Moriarty's mouth opened in an O of surprise.

"So, you introduce your friend to Sherlock and then just turn your back while he rapes him. Tut tut. I guess Sherlock should choose better friends, from now on."

John felt his stomach drop into its lower intestine.

_No no I didn't I…I didn't know._

Only that didn't matter. He realized that now. As much as he didn't want to agree with a sociopath, Moriarty was right. He didn't deserve to be Sherlock's friend, or anything else. He had abandoned him to Toby Toll.

"I would say it makes you just as bad."

John hung his head, feeling his cheeks heat. Feeling a presence near him, he looked up to see Moriarty's face eye level with his own. His eyes appeared almost black in the dwindling light.

"You see bastard that I am, I have a certain code. Murder I abide with. Assault. Theft. The one thing that I will never abide by is rape." Something flashed in the dark eyes then, an unreadable emotion breaking through the icy coldness. "You allowed your friend to rape my Sherlock."

John almost moaned aloud. He was barely even aware of his small finger being lifted, pulled back at an absurd angle. He screeched in agony as excruciating pain emanated from the breaking bone.

Moriarty stepped back, smiling a little to himself, as though admiring the work. John felt tears run down his face. His finger throbbed in agony.

I deserve this, he told himself. I should have seen the signs. Should have been observant, like Sherlock.

Moriarty stepped forward, tearing the duct tape from his mouth. John coughed out the cloth wadded in his throat.

"What do you think? Finger two?" He grabbed his ring finger.

"Break whatever you want. I deserve it."

Moriarty raised a brow. "Now, this is interesting."

"It's true. I should have known, should have…"

"Boring!" Moriarty sighed and stood up. "What's the point if you're just going to sit there and blubber in complete self loathing?"

John refused to answer. He kept his head down. Let Moriarty do what he wanted to him…

No! Sherlock needed him. He refused to let this twisted son of a bitch get to him.

Moriarty gestured to one of his men, who came over, once more.

"Oh, John. You're actually not the one I want." He patted him condescendingly on the cheek. "I'm hoping this." He grabbed the broken finger and yanked it back. John gritted his teeth, stifling the urge to scream. In that instance, sharp pain in the back of his neck signaled another syringe going in. "Will serve as a reminder of what you've done. And when I feel you need more punishment I'm going to break one more. And then another. And then another. You won't know when I'll arrive. That's the fun of it! It will only be over when every finger and every toe is broken."

John allowed himself to succumb to the effects of the drug.

###

He awoke a few blocks from Baker Street. No sign of Moriarty or his vehicle was present, not that he was surprised. The only thing on his mind was getting home and to Sherlock.

There was a small car parked out the front, a familiar figure walking towards the front door.

"Molly?"

"Oh, hi." She swung her head around, her ponytail swishing. "I was hoping to see Sherlock." The doctor in her instantly noticed his injury. "What happened to your finger?"

"Sherlock is… well he's rather sick at the moment. I'll relay the message to him."

There was no doubting the disappointment in her dark eyes. "I just came to drop off his wallet. He left it in the lab, the other day. Actually, I found it on the floor."

John blinked, staring at the offered object a long moment.

"Ah.. sure, sure. I'll give it to him."

Here it was. Proof that Sherlock had lied. No one had mugged him.

Both stood awkwardly a moment. "Ah, is he going to be ok?"

"Oh it's just… a bad flu. You know how grumpy he gets." He forced a smile. In reality, he wasn't up for chatting with her. He was longing to get inside, splint his finger and take a few strong pain killers.

"Ok, well. You take care of that." She frowned at him once more.

John opened the door, not bothering to watch her drive off, as he entered the premises.

"John!" Mrs. Hudson hurried after him, as he rushed up the stairs. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Hudson. Thanks." He managed to smile at her, and then closed the door behind him-

-to Mycroft, seated gracefully in his favourite armchair.

"Oh, hello." John walked over and shook his hand.

"I would do more to cover those bruises on your wrists, if I were you." Mycroft observed. "And wash your face. There is still obvious residue on it from where you've had your mouth taped. It would not be in Sherlock's best interest to know that his recently resurrected enemy is involved in this. Although, knowing Moriarty's history, it doesn't surprise me."

John didn't have it in him to be surprised at Mycroft's deductions.

"I need to… my finger."

Mycroft smiled. "But, of course."

John raced upstairs to his room and located his medical bag, under his bed. After splinting and bandaging his finger, he rolled down the sleeves of his long shirt. He could only surmise that they came up, a little, when he shook hands with Mycroft, revealing the deep bruises from where he'd struggled with his binds.

He walked across to his tiny ensuite and looked into the mirror. What a day. He filled the basin with water and used the soap to scrub his face. After patting it dry, he admitted he did feel a lot better.

Walking back downstairs, he felt better to take Mycroft on.

"How did you know-?"

"It was obvious when you walked in. Who else would bind and gag you? Or do you have a habit of making enemies, Dr. Watson? Oh, I suspected Moriarty would be onto this from the beginning, as I was."

"Because it's Sherlock."

Mycroft's smile faltered. "Yes, but that's not the whole truth. I take it he was the one who broke your finger? So, he blames you, in part for what happened to Sherlock?"

John refused to answer.

"It wasn't until I started to research him, using very delicate sources that I realized who your friend Toll really is. Don't be too hard on yourself. He has fooled a lot of people."  
 _I should have known… should have protected Sherlock…_

"Your self-blame is only distancing yourself from giving Sherlock the true support he needs."

John swallowed once more. Mycroft was right. His guilt wasn't leading anywhere.

"And as for Moriarty, his past is indeed, a murky thing. But there is something that stands out-"

In that instance, Sherlock and Stamford stepped into the room.

"Oh, hi John." Stamford smiled.

Sherlock's eyes instantly went to John's finger. John drew his hand up into its sleeve.

"Well, ah I'll be off." Stamford turned back to Sherlock. "Shall we say same time next week?"

Sherlock replied with a stiff jerk of head.

"Ok well…" Stamford looked around the room. Mycroft smiled indulgently at him. "Good bye everyone."

He trotted to the door and closed it behind himself. The three remaining men in the room were silent a long moment.

"I should be off, as well." Mycroft walked over to take his coat off the coat rack.

"Another government to overthrow? Which will this one be?" Sherlock snapped.

The elder brother ignored him, as he wrapped his scarf around himself. Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes at the sight of the scarf. John suddenly recalled that he hadn't seen Sherlock wear his familiar blue scarf since… since the night of the attack. He felt a familiar dread build in his stomach.

"Take care." Mycroft picked up his umbrella. He looked pointedly at John, and then left the room, himself.

John and Sherlock stared at each other a long moment.

"I could come up with all kinds of theories…" Sherlock gestured towards John's broken finger.

"Sherlock…" John took a deep breath. He had to to forget that this was his friend here and to consider him as a patient. "I need you to believe this, right now. With what happened. It wasn't your fault."

Sherlock's lips upturned in a wry smile. "Is that all? Because I'm rather tired-"

John held up his wallet. Sherlock's face visibly fell a moment, before righting itself to its usual coldness.

"You weren't mugged. Molly came over. She found this in the lab at Bart’s."

"What do you want me to say?" Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Just the truth, Sherlock."

The taller man's eyes focused once more on his broken finger. "Moriarty."

John sighed. "His goons kidnapped me off the street, injected me with a sedative. When I came too, I was tied to a chair. Moriarty broke my finger. It seems he's under the impression that Toll was the one who attacked you. Now, why would that be, Sherlock?"

All of the colour drained from the consultant's face. "I don't…"

"Please, Sherlock…" He stepped closer. "Please, it's me…"

"Why does it matter?" Sherlock snapped, eyes flashing. "I just want to forget. Why do people keep bringing it up?"

John was now right in front of him. "I need to know."

Sherlock held his gaze. "I can't…" He shook his head. "I just want to delete it."

"It doesn't work that way. Believe me, I know."

"PTSD from serving in Afghanistan."

John smiled bitterly. "I agree with you on the therapist front. She did nothing for me. But do you know who helped me? You, Sherlock. You made life worthwhile again. When I thought you were dead…. oh god, Sherlock if I had lost you again…" He felt his heart start to hammer.

Sherlock's expression was worth the agony of his broken finger. He'd have it broken again, to keep the look of wonderment on the other's face.

"Please, let me in."

Sherlock's reply was to walk over to the couch. "Sit down." He said gently. John did as was bid. Sherlock moved sideways next to him, resting his head on John's lap.

"I can't seem to resolve it, within myself. That this man could damage me in such a way. This man who is so beneath me. Intellectually, emotionally. Even physically, if it was a fair fight. But he took me by surprise…" A tremor ran though the slender body. John placed a reassuring hand on his arm, soothingly stroking.

"I don't blame you, John. I knew, that as soon as I told you you'd start to blame yourself. But you couldn't have known-"

John felt his stomach muscles start to tighten.

"Even I didn't know how far he'd take his little power games."

"Toll was the one who hurt you."

Sherlock shuddered once more. "He came into my lab while I was working. Like I said, took me by surprise. We fought but he quickly overpowered me. At first I thought his aim was murder."

"He strangled you." Now it was John's turn to shudder.

"I almost passed out. He used my momentary weakness to handcuff me to the desk I'd been working on." The consultant started to tremble. "He tore open my shirt and used my scarf to gag me. I was trying to persuade him to talk to me."

John felt a sudden jigsaw piece slip into place.

"Then he pulled off my other clothes and…" the trembling became notably more pronounced. John stroked his arm, tenderly moved it up to his head and ran his fingers through his soft curls, in a useless attempt at comfort. "That was when he raped me." His voice broke on the word. John felt his eyes sting with tears. "After, he… said a few things I'd rather not repeat. Rather not remember, actually. And he uncuffed me. Told me not to bother to say anything to anyone. At the time, I thought there was no chance of that. I had never felt so helpless. I was in shock. Just wanted him to leave. Finally, he did. I managed to get my clothes back on and took a cab back here. So that's it. That's everything."

John allowed the tears to spill down his face. Finally, the truth. And he didn't know what they were going to do. Even if he did punish Toby, it would not alleviate Sherlock's pain.

"To think, I just told you about my rape. And you're the one who's crying." He said, dryly.

"I'm sorry." He wiped at his eyes.

"No, no… it's… ok."

Both were silent a long while. John had never felt more helpless. At least, in war, there were parameters around how to deal with issues. Tight rules and regulations on how to cope with every event. But this… there was no contingency plan for dealing with the most incredible man he knew being violated. He could only touch his hair, his back in a way that he hoped wasn't being interpreted as in any way sexual but instead loving, giving. The fact that Sherlock hadn't moved, he felt, was at least a sign that he had interpreted John's light touches in the right way.

"It's a major inconvenience but I'll have to tell Lestrade. He would want to know of a man of such moral impudence being on his force… his partner."

John felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut. Lestrade's partner. His friend. How could neither of them realize the monster that was with them?

_Bloody hell, even Moriarty figured it out. What were we thinking? Damn you, Lestrade, why didn't you know?_

"For the same reason that you didn't."

John almost jumped out of his seat. _How does he do that?_

"John, you are too easily read. Both one of your blessings and failings as a human being."

"Aren't you angry? He was his partner and he didn't know."

"He was also your friend." Sherlock pointed out.

John felt his stomach turn to ice.

"Oh god, Sherlock, I'm so-"

"If you say _sorry_ once more, I will be forced to harm you. Please don't make me."

"What about Tob- Detective Toll. What do you want to do with him?"

Sherlock was silent a long time. "I don't blame you, John. I told you before. You didn't know. Clearly, Lestrade didn't know. He's a good man. Obviously not as good a detective as me, but still quite a fine detective, never-the-less. As for Toll… I humiliated him. He determined to humiliate me back, the crudest way possible."

"I want to kill him." John admitted, a shudder running through him.

"I just want to forget. Delete it. Only, I can't. Why can't I delete it? I can still feel him…his smell, his weight. And I can feel him… inside. I feel disgusting."

John had always wanted Sherlock to open up more, particularly in regards to his feelings. Now that he had, he felt utterly sickened. A part of him wanted to tell his friend to stop. He couldn't handle this. But the soldier in him knew to be strong, to push aside his own welfare and be there for his friend.

"You're not disgusting. You're… damn you're the most amazing person I know."

Sherlock rolled until he was facing up towards John. His eyes looked very pale, in the evening light.

"What's so amazing about a sociopathic admitted genius who allowed his virginity to be taken in such a vicious and cruel way?"

_Oh Sherlock… I didn't know…_

"Ok, for one thing I don't agree that you are sociopathic. I think you're just socially awkward and place your intellect above emotions. Another thing-" He spoke higher to overcome Sherlock's objections. "You didn't allow anything to happen. The bastard tied you down. Forced himself on you."

"I was never interested in any sexual proclivities. For a long time, I simply assumed myself to be asexual. Until I met you."

John felt his heart start to hammer.

"Then I started to… get ideas, thoughts." He rolled to the side, once more, spoke in such a quiet voice, John almost didn't catch it. "I was hoping it would be you, John."

John's hammering heart felt as though it had just exploded in his chest. _Sherlock…_ "I was with one other man before you, at university."

"He cheated on you."

John blinked. "Yes, he did. And I guess… perhaps stupidly…I confined myself to women since. Until I met you. And I started developing these feelings and it… admittedly I got scared. But now I think…. When you're ready. I'm willing to try. Toll, he's nothing. You're everything. If you let me, I can show you that. And, further down track, when you're ready to be more intimate, I'll show you that sex is about joy and love, not pain and suffering. I can be your first, Sherlock, don't you see?"

Suddenly, the genius was sitting up, eyeing John in the most studious way. He tenderly stroked John's cheek, and then leant forward. John's heart was now going into hyper-rhythm. Their lips touched. John allowed Sherlock to control it, tenderly battling tongues together. Sherlock tasted of coffee. The subtle scent of his aftershave filled John's nostrils. And there was something else that overcame his senses. Something distinctly Sherlock, himself. Though the kiss was gentle, and a little awkward, John felt all of the hairs on his arms stand on end. Sherlock pulled back, a slight smile on his face.

"Perhaps we should peruse another episode of Jonathan Creek?" Sherlock suggested. John tenderly grabbed his hand, turned it over and kissed the palm.

"Sure." John jumped up from the couch. "I think we're up to season three-"

He started rummaging through the DVDs stacked by the television.

"Season three, episode four." Sherlock corrected. "It's already in the player."

John turned back. Sherlock already had the remote in his hand. Shaking his head, he walked back to sit on the couch next to Sherlock, debating whether to grab his free hand.

Halfway through the first episode, he simply reached over and grabbed it. It felt warm and soft in his. Sherlock made no reaction, simply continued to watch the screen.

But then he didn't let go either.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock had been always rather smugly aware of how different he was to other people. He was relieved for his genius. It stopped him from having to fraternize with others. Your normal person was utterly dull and uninteresting to him. He never bothered with anything as trivial as relationships. What was the point? No one could ever understand him, not truly. And he had no desire to understand another.

That was, until John Watson came into his life.

He supposed it was odd for a man who had been raped merely days before to kiss his house mate. But the fact was that he didn't care. He always did exactly what he wanted, regardless of the social norm.

Though he was determined to keep it secret, John had managed to wheedle out of him what Toll had done to him. Reciting the horrific experience as factually as possible, still did not fail to conjure the horrific emotional details; the constrictive weight pressing him back into the desk, the disturbing slapping sounds from flesh to flesh as the man moved above him. He could still smell the man's piquant aftershave, fresh mint peanut butter breath and spicy deodorant intermixed with his sweat. He could still hear the man's grunts and vile words. He could still feel the worst of it. The stabbing pain. Right down there.

Sherlock had wanted to curl up into a ball, had wanted to shield his face, his body from John's pitiful stare. But he had deliberately kept himself erect, had kept his emotions at bay.

He felt utterly destroyed by the one who had hurt him so badly. It went beyond the attack, itself. The one thing he lived for; his cases, had been now taken from him. He couldn't go back to Bart’s, couldn't see Lestrade at the station. If there was the smallest chance of him running into his attacker, he wasn't going to take it. Even if the man was transferred, he would still feel his ghost, mocking him. The genius, who placed intellect above such commonalities as sexual desire, losing his virginity in such brutal fashion.

_It should have been John. Before… what happened… I was ready._

John was the one who cried. John blamed himself. That was what surprised him the most. He wasn't sure what he would expect when he finally told him. It was certainly not that.

And he certainly didn't expect John to say that he still wanted him, even after he revealed everything. _Tainted. Dirty._

So, he decided to kiss John. At the time, he told himself it was in gratitude. As their lips met, he felt a whisper of Toll's lips on his. Dread thrilled through him.

This is John, he told himself. John.

So, he forced himself to concentrate on deducing what was happening. John tasted of minty toothpaste, motor oil from the rag that had been stuffed into his mouth, coffee, jam and white bread. His lips were dry and still bore traces of glue from where he had been gagged. John's mouth was warm and soft and, Sherlock had to admit, he was enjoying the sensation. Yes, very much enjoying the sensation. When they pulled back, he couldn't help but smile.

Later on, when watching a dvd, John took his hand. It was slightly smaller and broader than his own, the knuckles coarser. He enjoyed that, too.

Sherlock found himself inwardly amused with the situation, in regards to television. John thought that he was rather a fan of the series 'Jonathan Creek'. The truth was, while he found the series passable, he usually wouldn't waste time on something as trivial as a television programme. Not when there were finer workings of the mind to be had. But then, he made the concession for John. Sherlock also had to admit, it felt…. Nice to act normal, once in a while. To watch television with John, rather than detect saliva coagulation on heads in the fridge.

After a few episodes, John loudly yawned. Sherlock felt his heart inexplicably start to raise, his stomach twisting. What was the prerogative here? Would John expect him to come to bed with him? He wanted to please John but he was aware that it was too soon…

"I'm going to bed." He stood up and stretched, then turned to the consultant, an odd expression on his face. "Are you ok, Sherlock?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"Just, with tonight… are you sure everything is ok? It's just… it's all happened so quickly."

Sherlock frowned. "Are you ok?"

"Hm… let's see. Tonight I kissed the man I've been harboring some pretty intense feelings for. Yes, yes I'd say I'm pretty bloody ok, indeed."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. "We concur, then."

"Oh god, I wanna kiss you again." John said but didn't move, from where he stood by the couch.

He's waiting for me to say it's alright, Sherlock realized. But where will it go from here? I can't-

"I'm not going to do anything you don't want to, ok? If you don't want-"

Sherlock stood up from the couch and took John's face in his hands, leaning down to hungrily devour his mouth. This time the kiss was more ferocious, their teeth clinging together. John moaned, grabbing Sherlock around the waist to pull him closer. Sherlock broke it off, stepped back to lie on the couch once more.

"Well, that was…" John was rather out of breath. "I'm ah… I'll see you in the morning."

Sherlock watched him wander off to his room, smiling slyly to himself. He recalled Mrs. Hudson's question when they first moved in together.

_"Will you be needing one room, or two?"_

_We could turn John's room into a study._

He switched off the television with the remote. For the first time since… no, he wasn't even going to think about that. He felt energetic, elated.

Inspired.

He slowly rose himself off the couch and made his way to his bedroom, where he'd left the laptop last.

###

John actually found himself whistling, as he showered that morning. After changing into his usual comfy woolen jumper and trousers, he opened the blinds. The gloomy view outside his bedroom window did nothing to blacken his bright spirits. He opened the door and bounded down the stairs, marveling at the fact that, merely a year before, he would not be able to get up them at all. He could not even walk without his cane.

Sherlock had healed him of his psychosomatic illness. As he'd healed him of so many other things.

The man, himself, sat at the kitchen table, tapping away at his lap top.

Sitting down, which means the physical rectal pain has dissipated, John's frank doctor's mind told himself. Either that or he's exceeded the recommended amount of painkillers... or taken something else…

"Good morning." John wandered to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. "Coffee?"

"Thank you." Sherlock ceased typing and watched John move about the kitchen. "I've had a rather productive night."

John froze, from where he was spooning the coffee into the percolator. "You've been up all night?"

_No, he's not high or drugged. He's alert and very clearly highly functioning._

"Sleep is not necessary, when the brain is alert and ready to resolve the most intricate of riddles. I have managed to resolve a few cases of Lestrade's, as well as developed a new, very simple test for evaluating blood stains."

Watson turned on the percolator and moved to sit next to Sherlock. This was sounding more like the Sherlock he knew.

"Maybe you should get it patented?"

Sherlock shot him a classic look of derision. John couldn't help but inwardly laugh.

"Sometimes you are totally adorable John. If I'd patented everything I've discovered or invented, I'd be a lot richer than I am now. No, I'd rather the discovery be made for everyone. I don't want some money hungry company taking all the profit."

"So, you think I'm adorable?" John teased.

Sherlock gave him a sly grin. "Especially when you wear those _atrocious_ jumpers."

"Hey, I like my jumpers!"

At that instant, the pot in the percolator started to fill up. John moved to fill the two cups, smiling to himself.

"Is this banter normal for a couple?" Sherlock asked drolly.

"Define normal. For us… I'm not even sure where to begin." John walked back to the table, the two cups in each hand. He deposited one in front of Sherlock, and then took his own chair. Sherlock reached out and took his arm, turning it over to feel the pulse in his wrist. He then leant over and kissed John on the mouth, snaking his tongue inside and reaching his hand around to tug at John's short hair strands, the other hand still feeling the pulse.

Finally, they both pulled apart.

"Yes, it's racing. Was that another experiment of yours?"

Sherlock replied with a slight upcurl of lip.

John longed to reach out and tenderly touched Sherlock's chin, before moving his finger down to feel the fast pulse of his jugular. But then he noted the faded bruises, now a dull yellow. He felt all the desire drain out of him. Sherlock took his hand away from John's. Both silently drank their coffee.

"I loved that blasted scarf." Sherlock finally said.

John felt a fresh wave of hatred for the one who had hurt his Sherlock. No, not _his_ , he corrected himself. Sherlock was, and would always be, his own man. John was merely thrilled to be taken along for the journey.

Footsteps sounded up the stairs, followed by a knock.

"Why does he bother knocking?" Sherlock said. The door opened and Mycroft stepped in.

"Good morning, gentlemen." He undid his coat and put it on the coat rack, then placed his umbrella alongside it. "I have some information that may be of interest to you."

The elder brother then elegantly strode over and sat down in the chair opposite, placing his case on the table. He then favoured them both with a rather peculiar, focused expression, before bursting out with laughter. John shot a look to Sherlock, who appeared non-perturbed.

"Why, John you must have really liberally splashed your aftershave this morning, for some of it has come onto Sherlock as well. Am I to presume you've shared the same toothpaste, as well? Or _saliva_?"

John was not entirely surprised by Mycroft's assessment. He simply wished they would have had a little more time, before he discovered the new level of their relationship.

"This is not the least bit surprising. It was more a matter of when. However, John I will be frank. If you hurt my brother, I will _destroy_ you." For a moment, something glistened in his dark eyes, an icy depth of which only one other person could achieve. John had no doubt as to the veracity of his words.

"Mycroft, this is-" Sherlock began.

"You won't need to. I'll destroy myself." John deliberately kept eye contact. "We're both on the same page here, Mycroft. Both of us just want what's best for Sherlock, right?"

Mycroft's demeanor changed and the warmth filled his eyes, once more. "Certainly." He unsnapped the clasp on his suitcase, pulling out a folder.

"Toby Toll did not start his abuse with Sherlock. I've managed to locate at least two men who have also been victims."

John frowned, looking at Sherlock. To his surprise, the consultant's eyes lit up. He reached over and opened one of the folders. Inside was a series of papers, with a photo pinned to the top right hand corner. Sherlock started rifling through them. John glanced over. Inside appeared to be a wealth of information, from police reports, to hospital reports, to psychiatric notes. His eyes kept glancing to the photo. Dark curly hair. Blue eyes. So similar to Sherlock they could have been brothers. John allowed himself an inward shudder.

"This one was a law student. By all accounts, he had a brilliant aptitude for the subject. He also made money on the side working as a male hustler. Toll solicited him, then raped and beat him in a motel room. Unfortunately, he has no desire to co-operate with my enquiries."

He picked up the second folder and opened it. From what John saw, the papers inside were of a similar, detailed nature.

_How the hell did he get all this information?_

John picked up the photo, staring at it. A smiling, dark haired man, merriment in his dark eyes. Again, similar looking to Sherlock.

"Damien O'Toole. If you'll recall, John Toll spent some time in Belfast, before coming to York, last year."

John cast his mind back. Yes, he did remember Toll mentioning it… briefly…

"It was there he came into contact with his next victim. Damien was rather well respected in the local political circuit. He was head of the town council in Kilkenny before moving up to Belfast, where he quickly became a councilor. By all accounts, he was seen as a brilliant tactitioner, and well on his way to be mayor. He committed suicide in March of 2008. Though the official results of the autopsy were kept quiet, I managed to get a copy." He flicked through the pages then pulled out one and placed it in front of Sherlock. "Unequivocally, he had been raped, merely hours before he died."

John couldn't draw his eyes from the photo. He felt a shudder run through him. _This could have been Sherlock. Could have been…looks so similar…._

"Yes, he certainly has a type." Mycroft said to John. Sherlock was carefully looking at the documents. The elder brother reached into his case once more, and pulled out a small black book.

"Happily for us, Damien kept a diary."

"How did you-?" _get that?_

Ignoring John, Mycroft flipped it open. "Last entry reads 'I can barely write these words down, my hand is shaking so badly. I can't even begin to accept what just happened. I've just been raped. Tonight, Detective Toby Toll came to my house. We fought and he overpowered me.' Earlier entries detail constant harassment from Detective Toll." He closed the diary and put it down on the table.

All three were silent a moment. "Where did you get that? Why wasn't this known earlier?" John couldn't get his own head around what he was hearing.

"This diary was kept by Damien's wife. She told me she didn't want it to go further. That was why she kept knowledge of it secret. However, I managed to persuade her after I told her there had been more victims. I didn't mention names, Sherlock."

Sherlock picked up the diary and flicked through it, unreadable expression on his face.

"This diary changes everything. Proof, written by the victim, himself that he was raped by Toll. What I propose is this. We expose Toll for what he is. No one needs to know about Sherlock's attack. We expose him for this one. An anonymous drop of the diary and autopsy report to a well-known newspaper would encourage very good results. A respected detective inspector raping a politician who then kills himself? The newspaper would be very hospitable to the idea." Mycroft said.

"Wait, wait I'm not sure about this." John said.

Sherlock stared at his brother, pinioning him with his pale eyes. "I am of the opinion… that Detective Toll should be discredited and exposed for the cretin that he is." He put the diary down on the counter and pushed it towards his brother.

"Your name will certainly not be mentioned at all. I'll make certain of that." Mycroft picked up the diary and put it back in his case. He gathered up the papers. "I'm afraid you can't keep these. It was… delicate enough getting the information for the period that I have it."

John shook his head. _More victims. How many years has Toll been raping?_

"Everything will work out. Don't worry, John." Mycroft smiled, as he put the papers in his case, snapping it shut.

All three stood. "I'll take my leave. Please don't hesitate to call, if you need anything." He walked over to the coat rack and put his coat back on, picking up his umbrella. "I'll return tomorrow with the morning paper, by which time DI Toll will not be having a particularly good time." He smiled once more, then opened the door and exited with his usual grace.

John turned back to Sherlock. The brunet was tapping away on his mobile. "I'm telling Lestrade to come straight over. It's probably polite to tell him his partner is about to be publically humiliated and exposed as a rapist."

John wasn't sure how to feel about the current turn of events. It was relieving, in a way, that Toll would be exposed, without Sherlock's name being mentioned. At the same time, he felt revolted by what Mycroft had told them. He simply hoped the wife of the politician, Damien O'Toole, would not be dragged through the mud as well. She had suffered enough.

Sherlock placed his mobile on the table. "I knew there would be others. I remember thinking that, at the time, while he was… I wasn't the first."

"You'll be the last. I'll make sure of that." John said.

A ghost of a smile flitted across the diminutive features. "Are what do you propose to do?"

John admittedly didn't have a clue as to what he was going to do. If he could, he would glue Sherlock to him, so he wasn't out of his sight. That was, indeed, ridiculous. Sherlock valued his independence, one of the reasons he cherished him so.

"It is difficult, however to have a concept be fleshed out to a reality. I hold the highest empathy for the two other known victims."

"That was pretty hard to deal with." John admitted. He felt the urge to cross the space between them and engulf Sherlock in a reassuring hug, but dared not. Instead, he picked up the two cups from the table and brought them to the sink.

Sherlock stood up and stretched, elongating his slender body gracefully, like a cat.

"Bored."

"Huh?" John turned from where he was placing the dishes in the sink.

"Kiss me." Sherlock demanded.

John laughed but never-the-less raced over to obey.

"Just because we're… whatever this is, doesn't make me at your beck and call." John said, once they'd released.

"Really?" Sherlock raised a brow.

John shook his head, leant forward and engulfed the consultant's mouth once more. Sherlock moaned, grabbing John's hip and pulling their bodies together, tongues battling, each vying for domination.

Then it happened. John's body responded. As soon as he felt the hardness digging into his thigh, Sherlock pulled back, his face suddenly ashen.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." John's own face was getting very hot.

"No, it's normal. It's a normal reaction." Sherlock's face still hadn't retained its colour.

"Look, we can just… why don't we just go slow with this. I don't think either of want to rush things right now."

Sherlock nodded. Spots of colour were now starting to appear on his cheeks. "I should not be affected though! You becoming erect is a natural biological reaction. I wanted to kiss you-"

"It's completely natural, after what you went through, to suffer flashbacks, to have problems with sexual intimacy." John reverted back to being the doctor. "Damn it, Sherlock it was only a few days ago that bastard raped you. If you want me to back off-"

"No, don't just… I need to… I need to get my head straight." He absently ran a hand through his hair.

John nodded. "I think we've ran out of milk. How about I go out and buy some?"

"Maybe that would be good." Sherlock said.

John walked towards the door.

"I'm sorry I can't be… what you want right now." Sherlock sounded forlorn

John closed his eyes, opened them, turned back to face the consultant.

"Sherlock, you can be so… irritating at times! Sometimes it's not exactly easy living with you. But you know what? That is exactly what I want. I-" He broke off, shook his head.

"I-what?"

"Bloody oath, I've fallen in love with you."

Sherlock's entire body appeared to freeze. "People don't tend to even _like_ me."

John shrugged. _It is what it is._

"How about I get that milk?"

"John… with what you said…I… with my feelings for you. I know I'm acting rather loquacious when it comes to this kind of thing but… yes, it does feel it's, I'm… it's reciprocated."

John felt warmth grow in his stomach. _Got there in the end. So, at least now it's out there._

"Good, I'm glad." John said.

_Despite everything that happened today, right now, in this moment of time, everything's perfect._

Both grinned at each other. "I'll get the milk." John walked out of the door, closing it behind him. He spied Mrs. Hudson, walking down the stairs.

"Lovely day, isn't it, Mrs. Hudson?" He started whistling.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft allowed himself the courtesy of being more than a little disconcerted by the latest turn of events. Indeed, the sexual assault of his brother had a major impact on him. The blood seeping through his dialated veins felt as though its temperature had been upped tenfold. His fingers longed to curl up into claws, ready to strike.

It would be too simple to enact brutal revenge on the one who had hurt Sherlock. Beneficial to his need for vengeance, certainly. But not smart. In his position, he learnt how to be smart.

The smart man knew that the best way to destroy someone went beyond just physical violence. The best way to destroy someone was to reduce them to nothing. Take away the one thing they valued most in life.

Bastard that Toll was, he somehow managed to keep his predilection for rape separate from his work. Indeed, he appeared a very competent detective. Tomorrow, that would be taken away from him. Tomorrow, he would destroy Toll, just as Toll attempted to do with Sherlock.

And all because of a simple diary.

Damien O'Toole would finally get the justice he deserved.

Climbing back into his vehicle after visiting Sherlock, and seeing the man sitting opposite, in prior times, may have disconcerted him. However, his fraught emotions were simply too overloaded.

"Ah, the famous Moriarty. You look well, for a corpse."

Said man smirked. "I've started a new exercise regime." His voice had a slight Irish lilt to it. Of all the information he had managed to gather about the arch-criminal before him (and there had been very little indeed), an Irish background was not part of it.

Mycroft's lips twitched."You certainly are brave. I could have killed you twenty times over, sitting in this vehicle. Yet, here you are."

"You're not that stupid." Moriarty said flatly.

"Or what? You'll kill me? Kill Sherlock? Again? You were secretly relieved he faked his suicide, weren't you? He's the only one who equals you, compels you, drives you."

"And now he's not out to play." Moriarty pouted. "That displeases me. No one gets to touch Sherlock-"

"Only you claim that right, is that it?"

"Don't get me wrong. I _like_ Sherlock. The whole discrediting him thing was merely a bit of fun. You are right. No one plays the game like Sherlock."

"The situation is under control." Mycroft didn't like the idea of Moriarty being involved.

"Come now, Mycroft. You aren't at all averse to getting your hands dirty. Probably why you didn't kill me as soon as you saw me. You understand."

Mycroft straightened his back. "What I understand is that you had better back off. Let me deal with this. I won't allow any more hurt to come to Sherlock. And leave John alone."

"It was his friend." Moriarty bristled. "He should have known."

"This is not me asking."

Moriarty's eyes suddenly changed, became flat, emotionless. "You don't have that power."

"Try me." Mycroft wasn't the least intimidated.

Moriarty giggled. "What if I shot you, right now? Right between the eyes?"

The elder Holmes brother was expecting this. "Somewhere, in the heart of London lies a safety deposit box. Only three people have the key for it. No one you'll ever detect. Upon my death, one would go to that box immediately. Its contents would be… very catastrophic for certain people, if say they were revealed to the public."

Moriarty's smile froze.

"I know about Brixton Road." Mycroft said, quietly.

It happened so fast, he had no time to react. He suddenly found himself on his back, with Moriarty's hand around his throat. "You will tell no one! No one!" His eyes were black, face splotched with red. For a very minute moment something else entered the dark irises. Terror. Shame. Fury. Then it was gone.

Moriarty jumped back, releasing Mycroft. He opened the door and departed the vehicle so fast it was as though he was never there to begin with.

The window separating the driver's seat from the back came down. "You alright, boss?" Anthea asked.

"Fine." Mycroft was never in any danger. He was intrigued by what had just happened.

_To see the great Moriarty lose his composure. What a remarkable sight._

He rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day.

"Drive me home."

###

Sherlock popped down on the couch and switched on the television. A part of him was grateful that John had left him by himself, for a few minutes. He felt very drained. It had been a very emotional morning. On the television, a woman was talking about a new dietary plan. Sherlock scowled and changed the channel. Another man talked earnestly about a ladder that was six ladders in one. Sherlock had never had any reason to buy one ladder, so he couldn't see why he'd need six.

He switched the television off, frowning to himself. John did seem suddenly determined to get out of the house. It was as though he was embarrassed by his declaration of love. Sherlock inwardly sighed. He supposed he'd better tell John when he came back in that he appreciated what he'd said. At least now they were clear with each other.

As for Sherlock, he had nothing to compare what he felt to. All he knew was that he wanted to be with John all the time, longed to snuggle up to his cuddly jumpers. Even looking at the fair haired ex-army man, he felt a pleasant tingling sensation in his stomach. With John he felt safe, cherished, happy, worthy and most of all, loved. It was a pleasantly unique experience.

He lay down on the couch and stared up at the crack in the ceiling, feeling his thoughts start to disintegrate.

_No, can't sleep right now. Too busy. Too many things to do…_

_No sleep. No…_

_No! No!_

_Sharp pain. Horrid, stabbing. No no no this isn't happening. The man's smell, his touch, his voice. On top of him, hurting him. He wanted to scream, to beg him to stop. Only he couldn't speak, couldn't move, was forced to submit to the horror._

_"So tight, Sherlock! Such a good little faggot!"_

Sherlock cried out in terror, bolting straight up. It took a few moments to realize where he was. In his own house. Safe.

"No!" He still felt shaky, powerless.

_This doesn't happen. Not to me._

Sherlock calmly walked over to the kitchen and took out all of the plates from the cabinet. He then methodically threw them down onto the ground one by one, feeling an odd pleasure in watching them all disintegrate. He then walked over to the second cupboard and took out as many glasses as he could, feeling the glass squelch under his feet, the shards digging into his soles. The pain didn't bother him. If anything, he relished it.

It wasn't until he'd smashed all the glasses that he felt some modicum of calm return. He looked down at his bleeding feet and frowned. He supposed he'd better get them bandaged up before John arrived back.

###

John hadn't meant to stay out as long as he did. After the awkward declaration, he simply wanted to get out of the apartment a few minutes, regroup his thoughts. Only, on the way back from the corner shops, he'd come across a tiny market place, open for the weekend. Giving in to instinct, he'd perused some of the shops.

One sold the most beautiful thick woolen scarves. John didn't hesitate. He brought four. All different colours. He felt the red would particularly go well with Sherlock's hair.

"Sherlock?" He closed the door behind himself. Sherlock lay on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

"Did you get the milk?"

"Yes, and something else too." John started walking to the kitchen, placing the box of scarves on the kitchen table.

Then stopped.

Smashed glass covered the entire floor. With splotches of red intermingled. John felt his stomach tighten.

"Sherlock, why is there glass smashed all over the kitchen?"

"Because I smashed every glass and plate."

John told himself to be calm. He took a deep breath. _Shouldn't have left him. Damn it!_

"Sherlock you've cut yourself."

"That's because I was walking in it. Don't worry, I bandaged my feet up."

John put his hand to his forehead. _Ok, just think._

"When you're ready, use my card to buy some more." The brunet lazily waved his credit card in the air.

Ignoring the mess for the moment, John moved over to the couch and crouched in front of Sherlock. "What happened?"

"Nothing, I-"

"Sherlock, please."

Sherlock hesitated. "I fell asleep, had a nightmare-"

"About Toll."

_Who else?_

"When I woke up… it seemed the most logical thing."

"To smash every glass in the kitchen?"

"Come, John you're being unreasonable. I didn't smash every glass!"

_I'm being unreasonable? Just calm. Stay calm._

"Ok, so you felt angry, is that right?"

_I don't know if I can handle this. I'm no psychiatrist._

Sherlock suddenly faced him, an odd expression crossing his face. If John didn't know any better, he would say it was pure, unadulterated terror.

"I'm sorry John. I truly am. I'll clean it up. I promise I won't do it again. Just… please don't leave."

John blinked, a little taken aback.

"You were just thinking you couldn't handle what I'd done. I could read it in your body language."

"Sherlock… I'm not leaving, ok? In fact, I really shouldn't have left you alone, even if it was to buy milk. Ok, we'll just deal with the situation as it is. First, I'll check your bandages."

Sherlock scowled, opened his mouth to protest. John gave him a look to quell him. He gently lifted Sherlock's leg and took his sock off, then did the same with the other foot. Sherlock's bandaging was fine. He tenderly put the socks back on. Physically, he was fine. It was his emotional state that John was concerned with.

"You're ok. Did a good job on the bandages, actually." He noticed Sherlock was avoiding eye contact. Shame leeched off the consultant for displaying vulnerability. John was more than aware of Sherlock's pride.

"I'll clean it up, ok?"

Sherlock still refused to look at him.

"It's ok. We all get a little out of control, sometimes."

"Not me."

John took his hand. It felt oddly cold. He took the other as well and started rubbing them together.

"After I got shot in Afghanistan and was invalided back here, there were days I felt completely powerless. One day, I grabbed the coffee table in my apartment and threw it out the window. I'm glad it didn't hit anyone! I'm not even sure why I did it. All I know is, it felt good. Landlord gave me hell, though."

Sherlock finally looked at him and favoured him with a slight smile.

"It's completely natural to feel furious about what happened to you. If you like… maybe we could get a punching bag. You could take your aggression out on that. And if you want to throw the occasional plate well…" He shrugged. "Tesco's has them on special, at the moment."

"Kiss me?" Sherlock said, without the demand of earlier. John leant forward, displaying his reassurance, his love, his caring in the soft touch of lips, of tongues.

"I may be the genius but you are extraordinary yourself, John." Sherlock said, as they released. "To put up with me."

"What can I say?" John stood up and moved towards the table. "I'm a sucker for punishment."

He picked up the box and brought it back towards the couch. "I was a little late coming back because I went to the local market."

"What's this?" Sherlock asked, taking the box from his outstretched hand.

"It's a present." John sat on the edge of the couch

The genius shot him a confused look.

"Why would you buy me a present?"

John shrugged. "Because I wanted to."

Sherlock sat up opened the box and stared at the contents. He picked up one of the scarves, face strangely detached. John felt his heart start to pound. _Maybe this wasn't such a good idea._

"After he handcuffed me to the table, I wasn't entirely sure what he had planned. I knew it wasn't going to be good. I told him he was a good man. I knew because you liked him. He said 'John knows nothing about me. Nothing at all.'"

"Sherlock…"

"I tried to talk to him. When he gagged me it effectively closed off the one weapon I possess. My ability to reason with people." He started to shiver. John put an arm around him, pulling him to him. "But he talked. Before, during and after the attack. And what he said made no logical sense. He kept calling me a whore and saying I wanted it. Telling me how _good_ I was. I couldn't talk. Couldn't tell him how much he was hurting me, couldn't get him to stop."

John's grip tightened. He was certain he couldn't top the fury he felt towards Toll.

_Oh god, if only I'd known…_

"And then, when it was over and I managed to ungag myself, I had nothing to say to him. The one time I perhaps needed my voice the most, I went blank. I just wanted him away from me."

John had seen Sherlock display fake tears before. This was the first time, however the emotion was genuine. He wasn't loud, didn't bawl. Simply silent streams of water fell down his face.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock wiped at his face. "This is not conducive."

"No, it's ok. It's ok, Sherlock." He pulled him closer, wrapping his other arm around him and burying his face in his soft curls. Sherlock relaxed into the embrace burying his face in John's neck. Slowly, his trembling ceased.

No, I'm sorry. John thought. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. What a pair we make.

Sherlock pulled back.

"These are to replace the blue one I threw out." It wasn't a question.

He picked up the red scarf out of the box and wrapped it around his neck. John realized he was right. It highlighted the blue of his eyes, complimented the brown hues in his hair. He fished in the box once more and pulled out the green one. This one he wrapped around John's neck.

"This one will be yours. Brings out your eyes."

John nodded. "If you insist."

There was a sharp knock on the door.

"John, if you'd let Lestrade in."

###

Strolling up to apartment at Baker Street, Lestrade admitted to himself that he wasn't entirely in the best of moods. His car had decided to blow a gasket on the way to work, forcing him to take the train. Then he had arrived at work to discover the commissioner, not exactly his favourite of people, would be coming in to see him. After the usual verbal tirade, he had put in a few hours of work, before receiving the text from Sherlock Holmes ordering him to come to apartment 221b. And to come alone.

Lestrade, as always, acquiesced to his wishes. However, it didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

Clambering up the stairs after the chattering Mrs. Hudson, he thought about how often he came to this very place. Sherlock always came to his aid. He was, indeed, the best. If only he could be a more decent human being.

Upon stepping into the familiar room, he noticed John Watson straight away. Or rather, his bandaged finger. John shook his head _, forget it_.

Then his gaze fell upon Sherlock, seated on the couch. His trained detective's eyes zeroed in on the bruised neck, the laceration across his cheek.

"You've been hurt."

Sherlock nodded, face carefully blank. "Your partner, Toll did this to me."

Lestrade couldn't contain his surprise. "What? What the hell happened?"

"I thought it kind to give you the proverbial heads up. At this moment, the media is being given information exposing your partner to be a less than charitable character. By tomorrow, the nefarious dealings of your partner will probably hit front page-"

"Woh, hang on… Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Sherlock's pale eyes flicked to John. Both held eyes a long moment, before John concentrated on Lestrade.

"Your partner will be exposed as a rapist. We have evidence of a man who killed himself over what your partner did to him."

"My god…" Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. His stomach twisted into intricate little knots. He'd known something was wrong. DI Toll was well liked around the station but… Lestrade just knew there was something more to that man. Something darker.

And there was the way he looked at Sherlock; the few times he'd met him. Predatorily. As if-

A ghastly lock suddenly clicked into place in his mind.

He looked to Sherlock, once more. "And Sherlock, what happened to you?" He asked, gently. The consultant looked away. That was enough. He knew even before John confirmed it.

"Toll… raped Sherlock. Three days ago, at Bart's hospital."

Lestrade felt bile rise in his throat. Even after thirty years of doing this job, the depravity of other humans never failed to amaze him.

But the great Sherlock Holmes… raped? He felt as though he'd suddenly stepped into some kind of bizarre parallel universe

_Ok, need to focus._

"Did the hospital gather any evidence?"

"We didn't go to the hospital."

Lestrade turned to John. "And why the hell not? You're a doctor, aren't you? He needed proper medical care-"

"Don't you start on me! This is a delicate situation! Do you really want to consider what the media will do if they find out what happened to Sherlock? They'd have a field day! And he did get proper medical care."

"The hospital has the proper facilities to deal with sexual assault! You can't just-"

"Ok, both of you shut up!" Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade took a couple of deep breaths, to calm himself down. "You need to tell me what happened."

"I'm not pressing charges. I'm telling you as a courtesy that tomorrow Toll will be exposed for another rape. My name stays out of it."

"Sherlock-"

"I don't give you permission to involve my name, understand? John's right. If it got out what happened to me, my carrier would be destroyed."

Lestrade shook his head. "I knew something was wrong. I just had a feeling." Something else occurred to him. "The broken nose. Did you do that?"

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and he shook his head, before facing John.

"I went to his house. He kept denying everything. I… guess I lost my temper."

"So this man's… raped before?"

Sherlock sighed, a hint of his customary irritation coming in. "Look up Damien O'Toole. Evidentially, he kept a diary detailing the abuse."

Lestrade was flabbergasted. "Why didn't you hand it in to the police?"

"The very station that housed Toll? And risk you covering it up? I know what you do. You protect your own."

That certainly ruffled Lestrade. "What do you think of me, Sherlock?"

"I personally consider you to be a very fine detective. It's the others I don't trust. It doesn't matter. It's all out of my hands."

In that instance, Lestrade's beeper went off. He was wanted back at the station.

"The wheels are in motion." Sherlock said quietly.

"I need to get back. Be assured, I'll come back later to discuss this some more."

###

Lestrade strode back into the office; his head still feeling as though it had been given a good whack with a mallet.

"Boss?" Anderson said, standing up from his cubicle. "Do you mind if we-?"

"Where's DI Toll?"

"He's gone to lunch."

"Sir," Sally came towards him, determined expression on her face. "Commissioner Donalds wants you to call him immediately."

Lestrade was suddenly aware that more than a few people in his office were staring at him. He started to circumvent the desks to his private office at the back. Once inside, he closed the door, took a deep breath.

_Thank the gods Toll is on lunch break. I couldn't bear to see him, right now._

He picked up his telephone and dialed the number. The commissioner answered within a few rings.

"Lestrade, want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Sir?"

"I just got an interesting call from the editor of the Guardian. Tomorrow, they're going to be publishing an article about how DI Toll raped an Irish politician two years ago, who then committed suicide. They were requesting a statement."

"This information has only just come to me, sir. It seems the… victim kept a diary, detailing the abuse."

"And where did you receive this information?"

Lestrade swallowed. "It was confidential, sir. Suffice to say, I was told the same time as the newspaper."

The commissioner was silent a long time. "This is… extraordinary news. As soon as it comes out, it's going to be explosive. The best we can do is try and separate ourselves as best we can. I'm giving you orders to tell DI Toll to resign from the force. If he leaves quietly, it would be appreciated. He will, of course be given full remuneration for his losses. We can't have more of a scandal than this is."

_More than he deserves, sir._

"Certainly, sir."

"Inform me as to what has happened."

Lestrade hung up the telephone, looked out of his window to the busy station outside.

_Working alongside a rapist. The media is going to have a field day._

He opened the door to his office.

"Sir…" Anderson stepped up to him, lowered his voice. "I took the call sir. A journalist wanting a statement about DI Toll raping another man."

"What did you say to them?"

"I told them nothing."

_You told them nothing so they went straight to the commissioner._

"Good man."

"Sir…"

In that instance, Toll stepped up into the office, a paper bag in his hand. Lestrade stayed outwardly stoic but inwardly smiled upon seeing the bandage on Toll's nose.

_Good ol' John Watson._

"Here you go, sweets." He dumped a donut on Sally's desk.

"DI Toll." Lestrade stepped away from Anderson. "If you could come into my office."

Toll's blue eyes narrowed. "Everything ok?"

"My office, please."

He stepped back and held the door open.

"What's up?" Toll asked as he walked in. Lestrade closed the door behind him. He felt unpleasant goose bumps rise on his arms from being in the same room as this man.

"I know, Toby."

 _Such a brilliant actor._ The man's face held the perfect combination of confusion and humour.

"Know what?"

"Know about Damien O'Toole."

The other man didn't even flinch.

"I'm sorry, Greg but I have no idea who that is."

He felt his stomach turn at this man calling him by his first name.

_I had a beer with you. I told you all about my difficulty getting over my divorce!_

"We don't want a scandal. If you resign now, on full pay-"

"Resign? Why the hell would I resign?"

Lestrade could stand it no more. "Because you _raped_ Damien O'Toole."

"Greg, I don't even know who-"

"As well as Sherlock Holmes."

Something changed in the face, then. His eyes glittered.

"I don't believe this. I just don't… Don't you see what's happening, here? I'm being set up! I swear I've never heard of this Damien O'Toole. That Sherlock Holmes must be _sick_ to come up with something like this."

"He's not sick. You're the sick one, Toll. Now pack up your things and get out!"

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't like me. He wants to destroy me, don't you see?"

"Toll, if you don't shut up-"

"He's despised me from the beginning."

"Is that why you raped him? To prove one over him?"

"I've never _raped_ anyone. Honestly, Greg. Do you think you know him? I don't think you do. He's a _freak_. A sociopath. He loves the power he holds over everyone here. And I tell you something, if I did fuck him, he'd love every second of it! He'd be _begging_ for more-"

Lestrade wasn't the type of person usually to resort to physical violence. But, at that moment, something inside him snapped. He brought up his hand and whacked at the bandaged nose. Toll cried out in agony.

"You bastard! I'll have you up for assault."

"Fine then. Do it. Just clear out your desk first. You're out, Toll."

DI Toll just stared at him, chest heaving, face reddened, blue eyes sparkling.

_This is the real DI Toll. The one behind the mask of the sweet, affable detective._

"That little _slut_!" He raged. "That stupid fucking faggot whore!"

Lestrade inwardly sighed. So much for leaving quietly. Now, the entire office were watching Toll's tirade.

"You're going to regret this, Lestrade. All of you. Especially the _slut_ Sherlock Holmes."

"Don't talk about Sherlock Holmes that way!" Lestrade knew he was rising to the bait but couldn't help it. As much as Sherlock annoyed the hell out of him, at times, with his obnoxious attitude, he was always a consummate professional.

"Why the hell not? The slut's ruined me. And all for his own enjoyment."

"Everyone's watching us." Lestrade said quietly, gesturing to outside the window.

DI Toll looked outside the door. Indeed, all of the office had ceased activity and were looking in their direction.

Toll instantly stopped talking, red face turning purple.

"Just leave, while you have some dignity left. The commissioner promises full remuneration. We'll figure out your package later. Right now, I just want you out of my station."

The man took a deep shaky breath. "You'll regret this. And tell the _slut_ to expect a visit."

He tore the door open and stalked out of the office, the door slamming behind himself. Lestrade leant back against the desk, feeling shaky. That was definitely a situation he should have handled better. Outside the window, the office had still stopped. Everyone was silently watching Toll empty all of the things from his desk. Everyone, that was, except Anderson, who was knocking on Lestrade's door.

"Yes?"

Anderson opened the door and simply stood there, looking at Lestrade expectantly.

Lestrade took a deep breath. He needed to get his head together.

"Can you do some overtime tonight?"

"Sure. Sure thing."

"Good, because we're going to need someone on protection detail for Sherlock Holmes. I fear he's in great danger."

Anderson nodded. "I'll help in any way I can."

 


	9. Chapter 9

John had only just started to clean up Sherlock's mess, when Lestrade knocked on the door. Now that the DI had left, he decided to continue. He trod back into the kitchen and picked up the broom, sweeping up the last of the glass shards.

_So, the conversation with Lestrade was a complete cock up. Not that I was sure what to expect._

"No doubt there will quite some chaos at the station, right now." Sherlock was once more lounging on the couch.

"Oh?"

"The media will call the station wanting verification and a statement."

"Lestrade's not going to take kindly to that." _That strangely pleases me._ John leant the broom against the cupboards and picked up the smaller broom, kneeling down to sweep the shards into the dustpan.

"Hm… indeed."

John scooped up the remaining shards and emptied them into the plastic bin bag.

"Still, very kind of you to warn Lestrade."

_Not that he seemed to appreciate it!_

"Hm…"

John opened up the cupboard beneath the sink and searched for the disinfectant. It took him quite some rummaging around Sherlock's experiments ( _is that a litre of pus?)_ to find the half empty bottle. He took out some chux wipes and cleaned up the blood using cleaning liquid from on top of the sink first, before adding the disinfectant. Content with a job well done, he threw the chux into the rubbish bag, which then went into the kitchen bin and washed his hands in the sink.

"It's been rather a crazy-" He moved towards the couch and stopped. Sherlock had fallen asleep. John simply watched him a moment, dopey expression on his face, love sickness increased a thousand times over. The consultant looked simply angelic in his peaceful slumber. John shook himself ( _you_ _won't be thinking that when he wakes up and starts pestering you_ ) and draped the small blanket bundled at the edge of the lounge over Sherlock.

John decided to leave him to rest a while and walked up the stairs to his room. He hadn't written in his blog for a while.

He opened his laptop and pulled out the chair, staring at the blank screen a long moment.

 _What to write?_ He supposed he could write up the Mozart bust case.

A few minutes later, he was typing away quite vigorously.

A sharp, horrified cry sounded from down stairs, followed by another.

John was instantly out of his chair, running down the stairs at such fast speed it was a wonder he didn't trip and break open his skull.

"No! Stop! Get off me!"

Sherlock was thrashing around, hands held up, as though warding off some unknown attacker.

No, not unknown, John told himself.

"Sherlock! It's ok! Sherlock!" John knelt by the lounge. He knew better than to try to grab his hands.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He stared at John, breathing exerted, eyes wide.

"It's just a nightmare. It's ok."

Sherlock nodded, closed his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

John was indecisive as to whether to go back upstairs. He finally decided to grab his laptop and bring it downstairs to keep an eye on his house mate.

He walked back upstairs, saved his writing, switched the laptop off and closed it. He then turned-

Sherlock stood in his doorway. John gave a little squawk of surprise.

"Sherlock! You scared the hell out of me! Don't do that again!"

"So…" Sherlock started to walk around the room, taking in the minimalist furniture, the peeling jazz poster on the wall. "Here lies the domain of John Watson."

John put the laptop back down on the desk top. "You want to talk about the nightmare?"

Sherlock favoured him with a very Holmesian scowl. "No, not really."

"Ok, ok that's fine."

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed then, before John could respond, pulled his long legs up and lay down, side on.

_Just make yourself at home._

"Lie with me, John." He said softly.

"Sherlock…" John wasn't sure about this.

"It's ok… I just want you to lie with me."

A part of John kicked himself at how he always acquiesced to Sherlock. He moved to the bed and lay beside him, feeling rather awkward. Sherlock slowly scooted forward, face just as wary as John's. He reached his hand around and tugged at the short strands of his hair, leaning in to touch lips together. John savoured the slow, soft kiss, before moving back, stroking Sherlock's hair.

"Sleep." He said.

"Is that doctor's orders?" Sherlock grinned.

John returned the smile. "I guess so."

The consultant scooted forward and leant his head against John's shoulder.

"Wait, wait." John rolled over onto his back. "Try now."

Sherlock lay partially on top of him, head on his chest. John stroked his hair, his back. He felt incredibly warm, a giant living hot water bottle.

Of all the times he'd pictured lying with Sherlock; it never like this, Sherlock coming to him after having a flashback nightmare about his own rape. His fantasy more involved them lying together, exhausted, after a bout of hot dirty sex.

Still, he couldn't say he didn't feel utterly sated, at that moment. A perfect moment. He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of the man on top of him.

He was starting to comfortably drift off when Sherlock started to stir. The consultant put his head up, smiling down at him.

"Hello there, Dr. Watson."

"Hey, yourself."

Sherlock kissed him slowly. John sighed contently, savouring the sweet, somewhat awkwardness of Sherlock attempting to take control. The lip lock was over very quickly. Sherlock then climbed off the bed. "I think I'm going to take a bath, clean my feet and rebadged them."

John instantly felt the loss of warmth. "Sure. Think I'll continue with my blog."

_What do you expect? He's obviously not up for anything too intimate at the minute. And that's completely fine._

Sherlock didn't reply, simply left the room. John walked over to his desk and picked up his laptop.

###

John was typing up the trip to the Mozart bust factory when Sherlock stepped in. He had wrapped the red scarf back around himself and wore his usual winter coat. This despite it being rather warm out. John had taken off his jumper and was simply wearing a grey t-shirt and jeans. He reminded himself that it was common for rape victims to cover up, in regards to clothing, in a protective measure.

Sherlock flopped down on the couch next to him. "Blundering through the case, as usual?"

John didn't need to remind himself that, as much as he adored and loved and cherished Sherlock, at times he annoyed the hell out of him.

"If you're saying 'Am I writing up the Mozart bust' case, then yes, I am."

He continued to type.

"Bored." Sherlock said.

John ignored him, continuing to type.

"Bored."

John suddenly felt something soft and wet on his neck.

_No, no I'm not giving in. I want to finish this._

The soft wet kisses continued.

John finally gave up, saved his work, closed the laptop, placed it aside and turned to snog the hell out of Sherlock. Sherlock moaned, pulling him closer. Both released.

"No longer bored?" John asked.

Sherlock leant forward once more, kissing him more passionately, their teeth clanging. John couldn't help the groan issuing from his lips. He didn't hear the knocking. If Sherlock did (and he was more than certain that he would have) he ignored it. Sherlock also ignored the key turning in the lock.

"Sherlock, John Detective Inspec-" Mrs. Hudson began, walking into the room. John instantly pulled back, feeling his cheeks flame.

"Oh! Oh this is wonderful!" Mrs. Hudson said. Lestrade had stepped into the room with her, along with Anderson. Anderson seemed to be deliberately facing the door, away from Sherlock and John.

"Well, I can't say I'm entirely surprised." Lestrade remarked.

Sherlock picked up John's hand and held it. "What's _he_ doing here?"

Mrs. Hudson' face was positively beaming. Lestrade turned to her.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. That will be all."

"Are you sure, because I-"

"Thank you."

Looking rather put out, the older woman walked out of the apartment, closing the door behind her.

"Anderson is to be your protective detail. We fear you may be in danger."

"In danger? What happened?" John asked. He found that, as awkward he was to have everyone discover him and Sherlock in such a way, he couldn't let go of his hand.

"No, I don't want that man in my apartment."

Ignoring Sherlock, Lestrade explained about the confrontation with Toll.

"Why the hell did you let him out of the building?" John asked.

"As opposed to what?"

"Putting him in one of the cells! He threatened not only you but Sherlock as well! He's raped other people!"

"There is a chain of command to consider here!" Lestrade sounded exasperated. "The commissioner told me to get rid of him, so that's what I did. Right now, there's no evidence-"

"No evidence!" John gasped.

"I'm not saying I don't believe it all. I do. But, until I get more proof as to his crimes, my hands are tied. I can't just lock up my DI partner without due cause."

_I don't believe this._

"Due cause? That bastard _raped_ Sherlock."

Anderson suddenly shot a look at Sherlock, face a mixture of concern, shock and pity. Sherlock gave a little moan of distress, pulling his hand away from John's.

"I'll give you bloody evidence! Look at his face! His neck. That bastard beat him, strangled him then viciously raped him!"

"John…" Sherlock had turned white.

"Damn it, John. I'm on your side, can't you see? The commissioner has gone into damage control. We can't charge Toll until one of the victims or victim's family comes forward to press charges. As for me, if Toll comes within bullet range of Sherlock, I'll shoot him myself."

"Typical bloody red tape. It's not until after he kills Sherlock that you'll actually charge him with something. Or are you waiting to catch him red-handed raping someone?"

"Can I make an interjection, here?"

"Shut up, Anderson." Sherlock said weakly.

"Clearly, tempers are running a bit high. I admit the situation's not the best. We need to make do with what we have now. All this yelling at each other isn't solving anything."

John made a clear effort to calm down. He looked to the still slightly white Sherlock and groped for his hand. This time, Sherlock didn't pull away.

"You're right." Lestrade said. "Right now, my priority is keeping you two safe. Obviously, the less people who know about this, the better."

"So you went and told the _moron_?" Sherlock scoffed.

Anderson's eyes flicked down to where Sherlock and John held hands, gave John as quizzical look ( _what are you thinking mate?)_ then looked away.

"Better to have a monkey looking after us."

Lestrade sighed loudly. "As much as you two seem to despise each other, the fact is Anderson is one of my best detectives."

"You have my word that none of this will leave this room." Anderson said.

"Ah the moron talks! Oh," Sherlock's eyes glazed haughtily over Anderson's body. "Do I detect resentment?" He laughed.

"Maybe I should take first watch." Lestrade suggested.

Anderson nodded. "When do you want me to relieve you?"

"Make it 8am tomorrow? I'd better be in the office when the excrement hits the fan."

The detective nodded once more, headed for the door. John moved to open it for him. Anderson nodded at him.

"Thanks."

He departed, leaving all three in silence.

"Just continue on with your business as if I'm not here." Lestrade said. "I'll just set up by the window."

"Want anything to drink?" John asked.

"Actually, coffee would be good." Lestrade grabbed the armchair and dragged it to the front window, frowned then repositioned it. John moved to the kitchen, switched on the percolator. He managed to find two unsmashed mugs right at the back of the cupboard. Sherlock took out his violin from its case and haphazardly started strumming on it.

"Sherlock?"

"None for me, thanks."

John busied himself making up a coffee for both him and Lestrade, walked over to where the DI had positioned himself by the window and handed him the mug.

"Ta." He took it from his hands.

John was suddenly very aware that he knew next to nothing about this man.

Sherlock put down the violin and sighed loudly, dramatically, calling attention to himself.

"I'm going into my room. John, come here."

John rolled his eyes, earning a grin from Lestrade.

"What is it, Sherlock?" He said, stepping up towards him.

Sherlock pulled him to him and kissed him demandingly, passionately. John had the distinct impression that the consultant was making a display in front of Lestrade. Not that John was complaining.

_Of course, he always loves a bloody audience. Guess it doesn't matter whether it's for his deductions or for his love life._

Sherlock released him, and then walked off towards his room without another word. Feeling rather lightheaded, John collapsed in the lounge chair, picking up his laptop. He started typing, and then realized he felt rather awkward about not at least attempting conversation with Lestrade.

"I'm sorry about before." He pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the window.

"So am I."

"These last few days have been so crazy…"

"I can see that." Lestrade grinned.

John inwardly groaned.

"Look, your business is your own. All I can say is I've known Sherlock for five years and-"

_Here we go, here's where he tells me to back off. He's sociopathic. He's crazy._

"And I've never seen him as happy, as focused, as _human_ as when he's with you. All I can say is with whatever you're doing, keep doing it." He caught John's look. "You expected me to say to leave him alone?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Remember how I once said I hoped he could one day be a good man. I'm starting to see that with you, he is."

"He's… unlike anyone I've ever met. I'm sorry you came in on…"

"That was awkward." Lestrade agreed.

Both were silent a moment, then burst out laughing.

"Sherlock knew, you do know that? He allowed us to see you two together."

"I thought as such." John said. "I swear, I didn't hear you guys come in until it was too late." He laughed a little, shook his head. To change the conversation, he looked at the ring on Lestrade's left hand.

"Married?"

A look of agony passed over Lestrade's face. "Divorced."

"My sister divorced from her partner recently. It was a very painful break up."

"So was this. We were together ten years. Met through a friend. I saw Kelly and I just knew…"He took a deep breath. "We have a son, Mark. He spends most of the time with his mom."

"I'm sorry."

"So, how did you and Sherlock meet?" Lestrade asked.

###

John heard his door quietly open. Heart hammering, he bolted straight up in the bed, reaching in the dark for his weapon.

"Now that would be an interesting news story. Ex-army doctor shoots consulting detective."

"Sherlock!" He watched the figure move closer to his bed. "What are you doing in here?"

"I managed to sneak upstairs when Lestrade finally went to the bathroom after all those coffees you and him shared. I wanted to… lie with you again."

John's heart started to hammer again but for a different reason. He scooted across and pulled the covers across. Sherlock climbed in beside him. John scooted up until his chest was against Sherlock's back, reaching his arms around his waist and chest.

"This alright?"

"Mm… feels good."

John nuzzled his curls, breathing in his citrus shampoo.

"Did Lestrade tell you about his divorce?"

"So he told you-?"

"No… I simply knew."

"Of course you did."

Both were silent a long moment.

"I'm sorry about earlier. I… guess I lost my temper. I shouldn't have blurted out in front of Anderson about your rape."

"It's fine." Sherlock said in a tone that said it wasn't.

"I promise it won't happen again."

"I said it's fine! I'm not a child, John. I can actually take care of myself, as incredulous as it may be for you to hear."

"Of course! It's just…" _He's probably not going to want to hear this._ "There's something about you that's so innocent… even after what happened with that bastard Toll-"

"I am not an invalid! I am not _helpless_!" Sherlock suddenly pulled himself out of John's grasp.

_No no I wasn't saying…_

He could hear Sherlock storming towards the door.

"Wait, stop. Please, Sherlock." To his relief, Sherlock did as he bid. John got out of bed himself and switched on the light. He didn't want to have this conversation in the dark. Sherlock stared at him warily.

"I don't think you're a child or helpless or an invalid. Maybe innocent was the wrong word. I meant pure-"

"In other words virgin-"

_I'm not winning here._

"You're one of those people, aren't you?"

John found himself unable to speak. The hurt on Sherlock's face was so deep, it wounded him to see.

"You only became attracted to me after I'd been raped-"

"No! That's not true-"

"It's my suffering you're attracted to. Just like you were attracted to the suffering in the war.Even one of your lesser intellect should see that correlation."

Now John felt an arrow of hurt lodge deep in his chest.

"Do you truly believe that of me? Sherlock, I would never… I hate it that he made you suffer. It makes me want to rip his god damn arms off and feed them down his throat! Sure, it would have been good for this to happen before the attack-"

"So, in other words I'm not good enough for you!"

There it was, all of Sherlock's low esteem masked by his indifferent coldness laid bare in the one sentence. John felt all of his anger melt away.

"No, no! Damn it!"

"What, trying to come up with the right words to placate me? Or…" his eyes narrowed. "Are you annoyed now that you can't _fuck_ me?"

John winced.

"Want to hear the details? Is that what does it for you? How he pushed my legs up over my head, until I was bent in half-"

"Sherlock, shut up!"

"He didn't even need to masturbate to become erect. Just seeing my terror, that was enough for him."

John felt nauseous. He could only imagine what Lestrade, downstairs would be thinking. Surely, the poor DI would have heard the shouting.

"Right, that's it! Get the hell out of my room!" John ordered. He refused to deal with Sherlock like this.

"So you don't want me then!"

"Not when you're like this. You're being completely unreasonable. And, frankly, I'm too bloody tired to deal with it."

"Oh I'm sorry my _rape_ was such an inconvenience to you."

"What do you want me to say? You come in here and then start yelling at me, accusing me of all these terrible things. Honestly, Sherlock if anything it says a lot about how _you_ feel about _me_. If you honestly think I'm the kind of person who would…damn you! Damn you! I'm practically bending over backwards to help you. To make you feel ok. And it's _not good enough_. Damn it! Don't you feel anything for me?"

"You bastard!" Sherlock yelled. "I fucking love you!"

John was taken aback. For one thing, it was the first time he'd ever heard Sherlock swear. It was also the first time Sherlock had said straight out, with no awkwardness, how he felt. Certainly, most declarations of love didn't occur in the middle of an argument with a swearword in the middle.

_Why do we always have to get everything so bloody backwards?_

"I love you too. So much" John said quietly. Sherlock closed his mouth. "Look, I'm sorry if you feel like I'm treating you like a child. I just… all I want to do is protect you."

Sherlock looked away, sighed heavily. "I'm sorry too. My head feels so… everything is so muddled. I didn't mean… I didn't mean any of it. I truly don't believe you're attracted to my suffering. I don't know why I said that. Why I said any of it."

'You were testing me. Testing my devotion."

"I guess I was."

John stepped closer.

"Sherlock, look at me."

The haunted pale eyes met with his.

"This is a crazy time, for both of us. But you're strong and you will get through it. It will take time, but you will. And I will stay with you, in all that time."

"I don't deserve you."

"Sh…" John kissed him once more, passionately, as though he was a drowning man and Sherlock was the only source of air.

"I love you, ok?" John felt he needed to reassure him.

Sherlock slowly nodded.

"Come on, let's get back to bed." John said.

He switched off the light and followed Sherlock into the bed, climbing in next to him, onto his back. Sherlock instantly lay draped across his chest. John put an arm possessively around his back, kissed his curls.

_I guess we are made for each other. We're both bloody insane._

"Sociopathic, not insane." Sherlock said, sleepily.

"And I say not sociopathic. Irritating as hell, at times, sure. Completely arrogant. And, for a genius, you and be incredibly dense, at times. Like when you went to take the bottle of pills from that crazy taxi driver."

"I told you, I wasn't-"

"And Sherlock, I wanted you from the moment I first saw you, standing over a microscope at Bart's. It was more important for me to have a nice, sane house to live in, than embark on some relationship, at that point. Now, of course, I realize this house will never be sane."

"You still came onto me in the restaurant."

John laughed a little. "And I had to pretend that I wasn't completely humiliated and disappointed by the rejection."

"You said 'no' three times. 'No, no. I'm not asking. No. I'm just saying … it's all fine ' Made it pretty obvious."

"As obvious as your emphatic declaration of love tonight."

Sherlock was quiet a long time. "Shut up, John." He said, not unkindly.

"Oh my rather foul-mouthed gorgeous genius…" John put his head down to breath in the scent of his hair.

###

He awoke with a very pressing urge to urinate. Carefully extracting himself from the one lying on top of him, he clambered down the stairs. Lestrade nodded at him as he passed.

It wasn't until he had done his business, washed his hands and was crossing the lounge that Lestrade spoke.

"Everything ok up there?"

John felt his stomach twist, his face flush. "You heard us. Of course, you did."

"My wife… ex-wife and I used to have the biggest shouting matches."

John sighed. "We're ok. I think he just needed to get some angst out of his system."

Lestrade was silent a moment. "I'm sorry if I came across as insensitive yesterday. I'm utterly appalled that this has happened to Sherlock. And horrified that my partner was the one who did it."

"He was also my friend." John reminded him. "Sherlock doesn't blame us."

"Because he's too busy blaming himself." Lestrade said, wisely.

John recalled what Sherlock said the other day about not being able to use words to extricate himself from the situation. _It wouldn't have made any difference. None, at all. Toll would have probably just laughed at him._

John rubbed his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose. "I'd better get some sleep."

"Sweet dreams." Lestrade said gruffly.

###

Once upstairs, he clambered back into the bed, pulling the covers over himself. He could just make out Sherlock's form, beside him in the darkness. Sherlock had rolled over in his sleep. John scooted up until he was resting along his back, breath tickling his ear. He placed a possessive hand around his stomach and chest.

_No one's going to hurt you ever again. I'd like to see them try._

John kissed his ear then rested his head on his back, feeling himself start to drift off to a dreamless sleep.

 


	10. Chapter 10

John was in the bathroom for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Sherlock had an elementary idea as to John's toilet habits. He was rather sure that this particular time John wasn't taking care of any bodily wastes. No, to him the obvious conclusion was that John had awoken with an erection and had gone into the bathroom to relieve himself. Sherlock never bothered with such mundalities as masturbation. It was simply too time consuming, when there were other, more pertinent achievements to be had. He had managed to coach his body into simply not responding to erotic stimulus. That was, until he met John Watson. After that, he would occasionally awaken with a morning erection. Sherlock managed to 'think it down' rather effectively. Since the attack, he felt utterly dead, down there. As much as he enjoyed the kisses and cuddles of their fledgling relationship, he simply feared that he would never be able to respond sexually to John.

The toilet flushed and the tap of the bathroom sink ran. Sherlock closed his eyes. John walked over to the bed and climbed in. Sherlock could sense extreme awkwardness, leeching off John. He wondered what the doctor thought about, when he masturbated. Was it him? An indignant part of him thought it better be. But then, another part of him knew this was unfair. He couldn't give John what he wanted.

Said man rolled over, pressing his front against Sherlock's back and wrapping an arm around his waist. Soft kisses rained down on his temple, his ear, his cheek, before John lay his head down. There was something hard in John, despite the teddy bear exterior. Here was a man who blew a hole through an old man dying of a brain tumor. Sure, as John put it "He wasn't a very nice man." But the fact was that John was suffering from no ill effects whatsoever from blowing apart a dying man's chest. Sherlock felt safe, when John was near. Here was someone who would give his life for him. He recalled the scene in the pool with Moriarty, John jumping on the villain's back, shouting at Sherlock to "Run!". Sherlock admitted to being rather stunned. Apart from Mycroft, who dutifully 'worried' as a brother should and their dear mother, no one else in his life acted as though he was anything more than a brilliant brain. But John somehow edged past that. John burrowed deep into his soul, laying him bare. As much as he wanted to shun away from what happened the night before, he also longed to grasp onto it, to exalt in the conflicting emotions coursing through his body.

Light rain pattered the window pane, signaling the end of the rather comfortable weather of the past few days. He longed to stay in bed a little longer, but knew it wouldn't last long. Soon, Mycroft would arrive, bearing new developments on the Toll case. That was what he referred to it as. It wasn't _his_ case. It was the _Toll_ case. Logically, he was well aware that he was indulging in a rather a bit of denial but then, what was wrong with that? Really, who really wanted to admit they'd been forcibly penetrated? And by such a moron as Toll? If he was going to be forced by anyone, at least let it be someone with whom he had an equal footing with, someone like, say, Moriarty. It simply added to his humiliation that Toll could gain the upper hand.

He could hear Anderson's voice echoing in his head.

_"Now you're saying you'd rather be raped by Moriarty, because at least he's equal to you in terms of intellect. Yep sociopath."_

_No no, I'm not saying… I don't know what I'm saying. I just… I want it to go away._

He felt the agony build in his being, sludgy bile filling his veins. It hurt. It hurt so much. He didn't think he could feel such emotional pain.

_Stop it! Disconnect! You don't need to…_

He choked back a sob. He'd been hurt. He'd been alone and in terror and pain and no one had been there to save him.

And Toll had just laughed.

"Sherlock, it's ok." John's soothing voice. Fantastic, he thought sarcastically, now I've woken John up with my ridiculous maudlin thoughts. Soft fingers went through his hair. "It's ok. I'm here."

Sherlock shuddered, trying desperately to hold back the torrent of emotion threatening to spill over.

"It's ok to let go." John said.

No, not Sherlock. He wasn't going to let go. He refused. Toll wasn't going to beat him. Toll wasn't going to make him weak.

He took another deep, shuddering breath, deliberately composing himself. He turned over and kissed John, slow and lingering.

 _See? Nothing wrong. I'm fine_.

John, however, was not easily fooled.

"Want to talk about it?"

"I'm fine."

John's expression was carefully neutral. He nodded.

"You look positively delectable this morning." Sherlock decided to change the subject. It was true. John's hair was all stuck up in the air in the cutest way.

John's expression showed that he was perturbed Sherlock wasn't going to elaborate on his pains. Sherlock ignored it.

"I really should take a shower." He climbed out of the bed and yawned, glancing back to where John had sat up to stare at him. He held the most lovingly dumbfounded expression.

"What is it?"

"I usually don't say this about… anyone, really but… god you're beautiful."

Sherlock froze. A mocking voice coming back to him.

_"Thank you, beautiful. That was special."_

He felt his entire body go cold. "Don't say that."

John's face suddenly went rigid in a frozen expression of fury, before it smoothed out.

"Toll said it to you, didn't he?"

Toll, Sherlock thought absently. It used to be Toby, now it's Toll.

"Yes, after, what were the delightful words you used last night? After 'beating, strangling and viciously raping me.'" He achieved the intended effect. John visibly flinched. "He thanked me. Called me beautiful. Said it was special."

"Damn it! Sherlock, Toll was intent on humiliating you, shaming you. I'm not even going to go into the different levels of sick that man is. And that fact that he's made you rethink everything about who you are…." For a moment, the darkest of wrath entered the usually serene blue eyes, and then was gone. "This is _me_ saying it. And I'm saying it because _you are beautiful_ , ok? Sometimes I find myself just staring at you, just absolutely dazed…" He broke off, looked away, his cheeks turning pink, perhaps realizing he'd said too much.

Sherlock had never really considered it. He was aware he had looks enough to twist some people ( _Molly_ ) to his bidding. But true beauty? It was a concept beyond his deductions.

_When does it end? When am I finally able to delete Toby Toll from my memory?_

Time. Time upon time upon time. He didn't want to wait for time. He just wanted the man gone. No longer wanted to taste him, smell him, touch him, hear him… feel him.

He felt like he'd never be clean.

"I'm going to take a shower." Sherlock signaled an end to the conversation.

###

Moriarty was either too cunning or too stupid to respond to Mycroft's threats. The first text came merely hours after the interior car conversation. He was rather perplexed as to how Moriarty had his mobile number. The message was very simple.

**How is your plan proceeding?**

Then came four more texts, all bearing the same general concept. Mycroft didn't bother to reply. Moriarty didn't concern him. His concern was, and always would be, Sherlock.

Then, as he arose the next morning, the message content changed.

**Watch out for John Watson.**

Mycroft wasn't sure how to take that message. It could be a threat. John Watson was _in_ danger. Or, it could be that John Watson was _the_ danger. In his knowledge of the doctor, he would presume it to be the former. But then, why would Moriarty care for the well-being of John Watson? He clearly only liked Sherlock, in so much as he played the game well.

Mycroft decided to ignore this one, as well. He wrapped on the familiar door. It took a moment to recognize the man who opened it.

"Mycroft Holmes." He held out his hand. "I'm Sherlock's brother."

"Oh." The man shook his hand. The grip was strong, sturdy. "Detective Anderson."  
"May I…?"

"Of course." He stepped back to allow Mycroft in. He took off his coat and placed it on the coat rack, placing the umbrella beside it. He could sense the man appraising him, comparing him to his brother.

"So it would appear that Lestrade took Toll's threats towards Sherlock seriously. That pleases me."

"How did you-?" Anderson began but was silenced by a look from Mycroft. He took his case over to the kitchen counter and placed it down.

At that moment, Sherlock made an appearance… from the stairs leading to John's room. He glared at Mycroft.

_Yes, brother, I'm sleeping with my housemate now. What of it?_

Sherlock sauntered off towards the backroom. Mycroft biting down on the inside of his lip, hard.

Damn it! He would expect this from Sherlock but John? He seemed to at least have some sense.

Mycroft was suddenly aware that the other man was looking at him.

"Everything ok?" Anderson asked.

Mycroft smiled, clenched his fists, digging his nails painfully into the flesh of his palm. "Yes, perfectly fine. Ah, John!"

The lighter haired man now clumped down the stairs. The uneasy glance he cast towards Mycroft confirmed his fears.

"Mycroft."

In the background, the shower ran.

"I have some very interesting news to impart but first, I feel we should wait for Sherlock. In the meantime, would you put on the kettle, John?" He enacted a smile that had no warmth behind it. John glanced at him with knowing expression, something flashing in his eyes. A sense of arrogant entitlement.

Mycroft dug his fingernails deeper into his palms.

_You may be sleeping with him but he is my brother. I told you not to mess with him!_

Still, it was undignified to argue in the presence of others. John turned away, headed for the kitchen. Mycroft busied himself by taking out the various newspapers from his case.

Within a few minutes, he was seated at the kitchen table with John beside him, both sipping their tea in awkward silence. Anderson stood by the door.

Sherlock came out from the other room, rugged up for the day, hair wet from the shower. John looked at him and something eased in his face, a look of such love and adoration that Mycroft almost succumbed to letting go the fact that he was having sexual relations with his brother.

Sherlock stomped into the kitchen and filled a mug of his own before moving to the table to sit beside John. He seemed very at ease with the man, which reduced Mycroft's anxiety, a little. If John was forcing a sexual relationship this early on, then his brother would not be as at ease with him. He recalled Moriarty's warning. Was this what he was talking about? John had been friends with Toby Toll. Perhaps he wished to continue where he left off-

No, he couldn't get ahead of himself. He could only stick to facts that he knew. And the fact was that John was clearly initiating a relationship merely days after Sherlock had been sexually assaulted. As much as Mycroft was not a violent man (like Moriarty, he had others to do that kind of work for him) he had to control the urge to throw a punch.

Instead, he reached into his case and pulled out the newspapers bundled inside.

"The Telegraph ran it on the front page." He slammed the newspaper in front of them. Anderson walked over, from the window. The headline read 'Alleged Rapist Working as London Detective'. The sub-heading read 'Irish politician suicides over rape'. Mycroft watched Sherlock and John avidly reading the article. He had already perused it. They had done everything he hoped for, even going so far as including excerpts from the diary and interviewing Damien's wife. They could not, however get a statement from the station that he worked at. Only stated that he had been forced to resign. They didn't name the perpetrator, however.

Mycroft took out another newspaper, this one 'The Sun'.

"A spy in their ranks found out that 'The Telegraph' had the scoop and they didn't want to be outdone."

The Sun's headline was, as usual, more glaring. 'Rape and Suicide Scandal!' They not only named Toll, but placed a large picture of him on the front page. Underneath was a smaller picture of Damien O'Toole.

John whistled. In the background, a mobile phone went off. Anderson reached into his pocket to answer it.

"Yes, sir." He went into the other room.

"I commend you, Mycroft." Sherlock picked up the 'Sun' newspaper. "This has gone beyond exposing Toll."

"Where's he, now?" John asked.

"That's the concern. None of my people can find him. And if they can't find him, then he really is in hiding."

Anderson came back into the room. "It's hit the media." He switched on the television, to an advertizement on toilet cleaner. Frowning, he turned the channel to the news channel. A photo of Damien O'Toole was being shown on the screen.

"He just… changed." A woman's voice said. It cut to a pretty, nervous looking blonde. She twisted her hands together as she spoke. "I knew something was wrong. I just didn't know what to do."

"Lestrade says they may have to hold a press conference. The phone's been bombarded with calls all day." Anderson said.

"It worries me that he's out there, somewhere." John frowned.

"Turn it off." Sherlock demanded. Frowning, Anderson reached over and switched the television off.

"It will be old news in a day or so." Sherlock said. "But, for now, it's a good feeling to know that Toll has been exposed for what he is."

John was rereading the newspaper again. "The Sun isn't going at all easy on his colleagues." He glanced across to Anderson.

"Working with a rapist, why would they go easy on them?"

Anderson flushed and turned to face the window.

Sherlock stared at Toll's grinning photo. Mycroft knew what he was thinking.

_It still doesn't change what happened to him. Still doesn't take away the pain._

Mycroft was at a loss as to what to do. Sherlock was unwilling to receive his aid. He had never felt more helpless.

_No, not entirely. There was one thing that I can do._

"I will take my leave. John, could I have a few words?"

"Ah, sure."

Mycroft waited until they were down the stairs, out the front door and in the heated interior of the car until he spoke.

"You will desist right now."

John folded his arms. Classic defense posture. "Desist what?"

"Don't act coy. I saw Sherlock coming down from your bedroom this morning."

John's eyes turned hard as steel. "That is none of your business."

"Sherlock is my brother. That _makes_ it my business. I'm telling you to stop, right now. Believe me, you don't want to suffer the consequences."

"You don't scare me." The truth was, he didn't look the least frightened.

"Perhaps I could appeal to your reasoning. Sherlock cannot possibly be in a sexual relationship right now. Surely you know that."

Something undid in the eyes then, a thawing of the hardened countenance. "If you must know we haven't _done_ anything."

"Don't lie, John. You've done something. You must remember who you're speaking to." He'd already deduced it, earlier that morning.

John sighed. "We've kissed a little. Cuddled. Slept in the same bed. That's all."

Mycroft searched his face. He was telling the truth.

"Believe me, I'm not going to pressure Sherlock. In fact, he always initiates. I would break every one of my other fingers before I hurt Sherlock."

Mycroft's eyes swept down to the bandaged finger.

John closed his eyes, deciding something in his own mind. He swallowed. "If you must know, we… love each other."

Perhaps his laughter was cruel but it came out unbidden. "I know my brother. Sherlock can't love anyone."

The hardness appeared in his eyes, once more. "Then you clearly don't. Sherlock can and does. He simply hasn't allowed himself to feel it before now."

John believed what he was saying. _Interesting…_

"So, you truly believe that you are both _in love_. How delightful." He added deliberate irony to his words.

"To be honest, Mycroft. I don't care what you think. I'll admit the timing's not great. But it's been building for some time now. And I truly don't care for the accusation that I would force Sherlock into something he wasn't one hundred percent willing to do."

Mycroft searched his face, looking for any hint of guile. It was open and honest.

"We're on the same side here. We both want what's best for Sherlock." John said.

"You truly love him, then?"

John affixed him straight in the eye. "I truly love him."

Mycroft felt some of his resolve weaken. Here was a man willing to lay everything on the line, his reputation, even his own life, for Sherlock. Because he truly was in love with him.

_You poor poor man._

"I believe you."

John nodded. His eyes were still like flint. "Are we finished?"

For now, Mycroft could add no more to the conversation. It appeared they were at an impasse.

John departed from the car without another word.

###

John concentrated on putting his key in the lock without punching the door. The sound of the engine signaled the car moving away behind him. Good, it saved him from the impulse to give it a good kick.

He turned the key and stepped inside.

_Damn Mycroft interfering-_

"John Watson." Mrs. Hudson stood, as usual at the bottom of the stairs. "Can I speak to you?"

_And leave Sherlock for any minute later with Anderson? Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, they'll kill each other if I don't get back up there soon._

"It's important." She signaled into her apartment.

John should have used his instincts, honed to perfection after years of being a soldier. The problem was that his mind was too full of Mycroft and wishing to tell Sherlock about it, to be aware of anything else.

_I'll just go see what the hell she wants, if only to shut her up._

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" He managed to fix a smile to his face, as he stepped into the apartment-

To two very familiar faces, stepping towards him.

"I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry. They said they were going to hurt me."

John swung out, catching one across the face. He groaned, staggered back. The other tried to grab his arm, swing him towards him. Mrs. Hudson cried out. John rammed his elbow into his midriff.

"Mrs. Hudson, run!"

Only, she stood where she was, panicked look on her face, legs frozen. The one he had punched in the face grabbed hold of Mrs. Hudson, jabbing the syringe at her neck.

"Don't hurt her. I'll give you one warning." John felt calm, despite his rapid pulse.

He felt a sharp prick in his neck and turned around, slamming the other in the nose. It was too late, however. He flung the syringe across the room but the drug was already taking effect.

"You won't get to Sherlock", he said, groping at the chair beside him, trying ineffectually to make it towards the door.

"Yes we will." Goon one grinned. "He'll come to us."

John swore as they injected Mrs. Hudson with the substance, and then threw her weightless figure down, as though she was of no consequence.

"You bastards!'

"How's the finger?" Goon two laughed.

He collapsed to the floor, the entire room now spinning.

_This is turning out to be a really shitty day._

###

John and Mycroft departed the room. Both Anderson and Sherlock awkwardly watched the door. Sherlock knew exactly what his interfering brother was going to say. He also knew John well enough now to deduce that he wouldn't give in to Mycroft's persistent overprotection.

There was a very awkward silence. Sherlock walked over to the table and picked up the newspapers, bundling them together. He could sense Anderson's pity. It only strengthened the anger coiled in his stomach.

"How long is it now, since you've seen the children? Was the affair with Sally worth it?"

It worked. Anderson's expression changed, became stonier.

"What? You think being raped would change me into a different person? I don't need protection Anderson so bugger off."

"Let's get this straight. I'm only here at the behest of Lestrade. He says I stay. So I stay."

"How _loyal_ of you."

"You're right. I still think you're an arrogant bastard."  
"Ah, so the name calling starts. And you're an idiotic sycophant."

"This is childish." Anderson turned away.

"You started it." Sherlock murmured, folding the newspapers and walking them over to place them on the coffee table.

"Why didn't you report him?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're a consulting detective. Why didn't you report DI Toll?"

Sherlock felt his innards freeze. He did not want to be having this conversation, with Anderson, of all people.

"I hardly feel that is any of your business."

"There's a rapist on the loose. A rapist from our station. It could have been cleared up a lot earlier-"

The freeze was starting to affect his outer extremities. He felt his hand start to shake.

_No, no not again._

The lack of control, over his own body.

_"You've learnt, haven't you? You've learnt not to fuck with me!"_

He felt the coiled anger in his stomach unfurl. He suddenly cried out and launched himself on Anderson.

"Sherlock!" Anderson put up a hand to protect himself, as Sherlock rammed a fist towards his face. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and twisted, spinning him around and pushing him back.

"What are you implying? That I wanted what happened?"

"No, I'm just-"

"You're a detective. You know the statistics on reported rapes-"

"I'm not blaming you Sherlock, I just thought, as a fellow detective-"

Sherlock laughed. "So, you're saying I should have reported it, as a person involved n law enforcement, is that it? Why on earth would I do that? So the whole station can have a laugh at the _freak_ taking it up the ass from one of their DIs."

Anderson flinched. "Of course not! We would never-"

"Really? Oh come on, Anderson. You must be loving this, right now. The arrogant freak finally gets brought down. The sociopath doesn't report his rape because he's too _ashamed_ of what happened."

Something changed in the expression then. Anderson winced, as though physically cut. "Sherlock, don't-" He began, softly.

"I'm sure you'll tell the others. Tonight, over a beer, you can all have a laugh about how I just lay there and took it, while your DI rogered me. You can tell them all how he tore me up with his massive penis. About 10 inches, erect-"

"Right, that's it, shut the hell up, Sherlock!"

Sherlock laughed once more. "Don't you want to know the details? Want to hear how he handcuffed me to my own desk-"

"I don't know how the hell that John Watson puts up with you." Anderson muttered but Sherlock caught it.

"Leave. John. Out of this." He warned.

"Ok, ok. Look, Sherlock. I promise you. None of this will leave this room. And I'm certainly not _loving_ what happened to you. We don't get along but I wouldn't wish that upon _anyone_. I don't find sexual assault the least bit funny."

Sherlock longed to humiliate him more but found he no longer had an outlet. He simply felt very tired.

"Your DI Toll did. He seemed to find my humiliation hilarious."

"Well he's a sick bastard."

"You liked him."

"So did John Watson. So did Lestrade. We didn't know him. Sherlock, we're all on your side here. What he did was wrong. And we'll find him and punish him for it."

Sherlock had a strong suspicion that he wouldn't be found. Or rather, that someone else would find him, first. Most probably, Mycroft's men.

A subtle beep signaled his mobile going off. He located it in his pocket and opened it.

_Ah so it starts._

The message was very simple.

**I have a surprise, lovely one. Two, in fact. Meet me at the old paperback mill on canary road. You'll find it open, M.**

Sherlock looked out the window. Mycroft's car had left but John had not come up the stairs. He inwardly sighed.

_Damn you, Moriarty! Why is it always him? I would come anyway, you fool!_

But then it came to him. Insurance.

He didn't think that he would have too much trouble escaping undetected from Anderson.

 


	11. Chapter 11

When it came to planning his first murder, young Jim ( _Jimmy_ to his mother, _that little shit_ to his father) was very meticulous, taking his time to pull off perfection. Choosing Carl Powers as the victim was elementary. The arrogant bully constantly made fun of his glasses, his skinny knees and his oddly cut, stuck up hair. Jim taught him the ultimate lesson in messing with him. It felt exhilarating, indeed, watching Carl flounder about in the swimming pool. He reveled in the desperate and useless attempts by the lifeguard, then paramedics at resuscitation. Outwardly, he affected the same expression as the stunned faces of the crowd looking on. He had learnt a long time ago that he was not like other people. He was above. Beyond. Made for more. He had also learnt, from an early age, that he had to play the game. When posters for missing pets started going up on lampposts in his neighbourhood, he expressed worry and concern, like anyone else. Inwardly, he was gleeful. He almost hoped to be caught. It would have been hilarious to see the looks on the idiots' faces when they dug up the various mutilated pet corpses.

Long before he had the pleasure of knowing Sherlock Holmes, he discovered just how utterly dull life could be. It was terrible, indeed, to have no one else around who understood him. He dropped out of high school before sixth form, tired of having far more knowledge than the doldrum teachers or syllabus.

Unbeknownst to both of them, he and Sherlock shared a lot in common, around this time. Both took copious amounts of drugs to cease the crazy machinations of the mind. Sherlock's drug of choice was cocaine. Moriarty's was morphine. Both yearned for a stability that could only come from a tempering of sorts. Sherlock would eventually find this working on one side of the law. Moriarty, on the other.

He supposed he was always on a path leading straight to the position he now held. The only detour was the event on Brixton Road, which took him out of the loop for a while. Certainly, it was difficult to plan sociopathic villainous criminal enterprises when he couldn't leave his own house. The drugs, at that point were surprisingly effective in shutting off his brain. He simply didn't want to remember, refused to consider what had been done to him.

He could think about revenge though. Yes, he could plan that very well indeed. Once that was out of the way, he felt stronger, more directed, ready to take on the world again.

With his vast intellect and skill, it didn't take long to build his criminal empire. Life was, indeed, going rather well for a while. Until Sherlock Holmes, that was. Sherlock Holmes who solved a case he had so carefully orchestrated. Sherlock Holmes whose detective skills inevitably led to the arrest of a patron he had personally guaranteed would never be found out. Repeatedly this Sherlock Holmes name kept popping up. Jim took it upon himself to personally look into this.

He was not disappointed.

Sherlock was everything he wished for in an opponent. He played the game so well, a marionette jerking his arms and legs exactly how Jim pulled the strings. Jim felt almost relieved that he had also faked his death. Clever  clever boy. He was a nuisance to his life, but at least he made the damn thing interesting.

Jim discovered about Sherlock's attack in much the same way Mycroft did. He had sent word to his men to keep an eye on Sherlock and John Watson. When it came back that Sherlock had been interacting with Toby Toll, a man Jim knew, from his criminal contacts, to be a male rapist, he told them to update their surveillance. Upon seeing the CCTV footage of a beaten, bloody Sherlock limping out of a cab, followed by Mike Stamford arriving a few hours later, he came to the same conclusion as Mycroft. Sherlock had been raped. Moriarty took the undesirable news in good fashion for him. He shot the messenger in the leg and not the head.

Toby Toll was, in his opinion, not only a despicable, disgusting man, but also a confounded fool. It was too easy to locate him and then use his sway to get Toll to come to him. Jim told Sherlock that he usually 'didn't like to get his hands dirty'. However, this man warranted special attention.

Jim chose to meet in the old paperback mill because he found it very symbolic of his current mindset. Rusting steel cylinders that once rolled teams of paper were propped up against the flaking plaster walls. A rusty staircase with half the steps missing led up to nowhere. Broken down machinery littered the other side of the room, as though competing for dominance as to what was the less pleasurable sight. He stood directly in the centre, black suit untouched by the swirling dust around him. His unshaven, clean appearance was in sharp contrast to the devastation he stood in.

Toby Toll was an ever bigger contrast. He bore deep stubble, his shirt wrinkled, the jacket buttoned haphazardly over the top bearing some disgusting red stain. What little hair he had straggled up in the air. His face was mottled red, eyes bloodshot. He stank of whisky. He staggered before Jim and stopped, swaying momentarily before righting himself.

"So, this is the great Moriarty."

"Hope you're not disappointed." Jim could never resist teasing people.

"Not in the least. You hold up to all my expectations except one."

"And what would that be?"

"I didn't realize you'd be bloody gorgeous."

Jim allowed a cold smile to curl his lips. In the past, he didn't much care for the sexual proclivities that so guided other people's lives. If he so chose, he could seduce either gender. He simply hardly ever bothered. Molly had been interesting, in that she brought him closer to the real object of his desire.

To the one person he was willing to change his views on sexual proclivities for.

He had wanted Sherlock sexually from the first moment he saw him. He also wanted to utterly decimate him, to burn the heart out of him. This conundrum made things irritatingly difficult.

"Don't take offense, please. I just see a thing of beauty and feel compelled to react appropriately."

"Like you did with Sherlock Holmes."

The pale eyes darkened. "This has been a set up. I have never hurt anyone. Please, Mr. Moriarty. You're the only one who can help me."

"Oh such a naughty little turncoat, betraying your friends to seek protection from a master criminal.'

"They aren't my friends." He spat. "They turned against me. They're lying. You know Sherlock Holmes. He'll do anything to keep his name in the paper."

"So you're saying you didn't rape Sherlock Holmes?" He laughed coldly. "Come now, Toby. Remember who you're talking to. You took what you wanted. You realized the ultimate way to destroy a man."

The expression perceptibly changed before him. Slyness washed over the chubby face.

"He needed to be brought down. His arrogance was simply becoming too overbearing. And you succeeded. I've been watching Sherlock, Toby. He is completely at odds with himself, relying on that little lapdog scared ex-soldier to take care of him. It's truly pathetic."

Moriarty stepped closer. "Tell me, Toby, what you did to him. Did he scream? Did he cry?"

Jim needed to know. It was wrong. It was sick and twisted. Even he was aware of that. Sherlock would never give his body to him, as much as he longed for it. Furthermore, Moriarty would never take anyone unwillingly. As much as he was horrored and angered by what Toll did to Sherlock, the reptilian part of his nature longed to hear the details.

"Tell me what you did." Jim whispered.

"He was always on at me." Toll said. "Him and his bloody deductions. And everyone was all over him, ready to lick his bloody shoes! It didn't matter what I did, that arrogant son of a bitch was always one step ahead. I tried to be nice to him, I really did. He acted like I wasn't good enough to even breathe the same air. Then he insulted my mother. That was it."

"So you decided to get justice."

Toll smiled. "Yes, justice. That's it. He was working late in the labs at Bart's one night. Always at that bloody lab. I decided to pay a visit."

Jim nodded. "Go on."

"Anyway, so I slapped him around a bit, you know just to show who's in charge. Bitch tried fighting me. I managed to handcuff him to one of the tables. And he was still trying to mouth off at me. Just wouldn't shut up with that big fucking mouth of his. So I shoved that bloody scarf he's always wearing into his mouth. That finally shut him up." Toll closed his eyes, exalting in the memory. "And I yanked off all his clothes. And he was just lying there, all trembling and beautiful. I pushed his legs over his head. And I got inside him. It was so fucking good. So fucking tight. He was just lying there, moaning as I fucked him as hard as I could. Then I came, deep inside him. I pulled out. He still lay there, eyes closed, shaking all over. I uncuffed him and he said nothing. Not a single word. Wouldn't even look at me. That was when I knew for sure."

"And what was that?" It was with great difficulty that Jim kept his voice even.

"That I had totally destroyed Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty deliberately quirked his lips up into a smile. He reached into his pocket and located the taser gun. Before Toll could respond he pointed it directly at his genitalia, pulling the trigger. Toll fell to the floor, screeching in agony as the volt went straight through him, in an area that Jim was certain he wouldn't have any use for any more. Not after Jim was finished with him.

He stepped up to the still convulsing man. "That's just for starters. Consider it a pre-dinner drink. Why, we haven't even started he entrée yet. You're going to love the main course." He giggled. "You see, Toby, as much as Sherlock is the bane of my existence, I have quite a fondness for him. I'm rather… unhappy that you decided to go and rape him."

He delivered another volt to the now recovering man. Toby started screaming again. Jim's face went stony. "If there's one thing I despise, it's rapists."

He aimed the taser at the jolting man once more.

###

John couldn't think of a worse day.

_Harassed by Mycroft, then kidnapped by two of the biggest morons to walk through London, and now tied to a chair, facing the most deranged man I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. Yep, I think we have a winner!_

He could take some solace that he hadn't been gagged… yet.

"You bastard!" He struggled mightily, only succeeding in bruising his wrists and ankles and causing bemusement to Moriarty. "What the hell do you want with me?"

"It will all make sense, pet. We just have to wait for Sherlock."

"Do you really think he'll just waltz through the door?"

"Don't try con me, John. You and I both know Sherlock will do anything to save _his_ Watson. Ah, yes. I think he will 'waltz through the door'".

"The police are on their way, right now."

"You really are a _terrible_ liar, John. Maybe you should take some advice from Mrs. Hudson. Does Lestrade know what she really takes for her 'hip pain'? It's actually illegal in five countries."

_Mrs. Hudson…_

He didn't want to ask, didn't want to know the truth, if the truth was dire.

"Oh, don't worry about her. She'll be fine. Just been knocked out. Suffered worse with that interesting hip medication. I _like_ the old bag." He continued, in reminiscent fashion. "She was the main witness in her husband's murder trial, did you know? He killed his business partner, in Florida. I am of the knowledge that he also beat her. Justification, some would say, for wanting him to fry. And fry he did. Eyeballs popping onto cheek bones, brain sizzling. Great for a barbeque." Moriarty broke up in laughter.

John had no words for him.

_Poor Mrs. Hudson._

He wished he could have found out about Mrs. Hudson from someone else, rather than the man before him.

_I'm so sorry._

Moriarty moved closer. He knelt before John, his pungent spicy aftershave titillating John's nostrils. He was obviously a fan of the 'old spice' adverts.

"So this is what I have to compete with. A traumatized ex-army doctor." John willed himself not to flinch as Moriarty flicked open a knife, trailed it softly down his cheek. "I guess there's no accounting for taste. See, the thing about that idiot Toll is he thinks simple rape is the ultimate way to destroy a man." He trailed the knife down to John's chin. "So _dull_. Simply lacks _elan_. No, there are other ways." John visibly showed no signs of relief as Moriarty moved the knife away. "Answer me this, how would you feel about Sherlock if I cut up that pretty face? Gouged out his eyes so he couldn't see all of his deductions, cut off that little turned up nose? Would you still love him?"

John refused to rise to the bait. "You wouldn't dare."

Moriarty burst out laughing. "I never realized you were a comedian."

"You so much as touch him and I will tear you apart with my bare hands."

John meant every word.

"Don't worry." Moriarty patted his shoulder. "I would never destroy Sherlock's face. I enjoy looking at it too much. You, on the other hand…" The knife came up to John's face, once more. He tried to twist his head away. "How do you think Sherlock would feel if I mutilated your face? Would he love you then?"

"Get the hell away from me!" John viciously shook his head back and forth, as Moriarty laughed, playfully tapping the side of the blade on John's cheek.

Footsteps sounded behind them. Moriarty turned around, pocketed the knife once more. Sherlock was walking towards them. He glanced at John, expression inscrutable. He held a revolver loosely by his side.

"I'm going to untie John." Sherlock pointed the weapon at Moriarty, as he stepped closer.

"What is that, gorgeous one? No 'great to see you Jim! We should catch up more often.' And after all I've done for you!" Moriarty mock pouted.

Sherlock said nothing, simply continued to move until he was level with John. John felt his heart start to hammer. Any second now, tiny red dots would appear over both of their bodies. Moriarty stepped back, hands raised in a gesture of false surrender.

"Don't you want to see my second surprise?"

"It's no surprise to me." John wasn't aware that Sherlock had cut through his binds until his hands were suddenly free. Sherlock came to the front, a small pocket knife in his hands. He handed it to John. John looked at Moriarty, utterly stunned that either of them hadn't even been threatened yet with death. Was he really just going to let them both walk out of there? What was the point of all of this?

"Of course, it wouldn't be, to you."

John bent forward and hastily cut away the binds holding his feet to the chair, and stood.

"Of course, I could just kill you right now." Sherlock pointed the weapon right at Moriarty's head.

"We both know you won't do that. You _enjoy_ me too much. Admit it."

Both were silent a moment. "Perhaps not. But John will."

He handed the revolver to John, who instantly pointed it at the master villain. For a moment, something sparked in Jim's dark eyes. If John wasn't mistaken, it looked to be pure fear.

Then the shouting began, the sounds of someone being dragged, against their will.

"Bastards! Bloody fucking bastards!"

John instantly moved the gun from Moriarty, as Toll was dragged into the room by Jim's favourite two henchmen. John's ex-friend had obviously seen better days. One eye was almost swelled shut from bruises and his clothes were torn, revealing blackened patches of skin. John surmised that he had been burnt. All ten of his fingers were swollen and purple. Obviously Moriarty had become finger-breaking happy again.

"If you're going to kill someone, kill him, John." Jim said.

"Fucking bastards!" the man struggled.

Only John couldn't. He refused to shoot an unarmed man, particularly not when no one was in direct danger.

"Then give the weapon to Sherlock. He'll happily shoot him, won't you, my dear?"

Only Sherlock wasn't saying anything. He stared at the weapon, then stared at Toll, then down at the weapon again, seemingly as indecisive as John.

"Someone shoot him! This is getting rather tedious." Moriarty sighed.

This is a game to him. John thought. He's loving this.

"I'll fucking kill you all!" Toll raged. "You think you can destroy me! I'll fucking show you! Fucking bastards!"

"He _raped_ Sherlock, John." Moriarty said.

"Shut up, Toby!" John shouted.

"John! You were meant to be my _friend_. And you believed the slut."

"That's it! You fucking shut up right now!"

Moriarty laughed, clapped his hands. "Oh this is getting heated."

"John, he's trying to rile you." Sherlock said, quietly. John wasn't sure whether he was referring to Moriarty or Toby.

"Why not? He was a slut. He fucking _loved_ it! Was _begging_ for it!"

"That's it, you say one more-" John glanced to Sherlock. He'd gone pale, his breathing shallow. He was still as a marble statue, eyes eerily unfocused.

_He's having a flashback._

"Sherlock." John turned to him. The pale eyes focused on him, terror and shame swirling around in the blue irises.

"Oh so you two are all loved up, 'ey?" Toll shouted behind him. "You can fuck him, John. But you'll never be his first."

Sherlock flinched visibly, air exhaling through his clenched lips. He pulled away from John.

"I claim that priveledge. And every time he lets you _fuck_ him, he'll see my face, not yours."

John felt something snap within him, like an elastic band pulled too tight. All of the horror and fury of the past week finally became too much to bear.

_That is fucking it!_

He turned from Sherlock, aimed at the still struggling Toll and pulled the trigger. Blood exploded from his stomach.

"You shot me! You fucking-"

He pulled the trigger again. This time, the bullet hit just above the sternum, blowing open his rib cage and spewing blood over the men holding him. They released him and stepped away. Toll collapsed forward on the ground, tried to move forward on his stomach a few more seconds and then went still.

For a moment, it felt as though all of the air had been sucked from the room.

"Well, that's that." Moriarty said. "You did admirably well, John. I congratulate you."

"Shut up." John turned to Sherlock, who now at least had some focus back. His breathing was still a little exerted.

"Nice shooting." Sherlock said.

"Are you ok?"

"I should ask you the same question. You did just shoot a man."

"Well, he wasn't a very good man." John felt numb.

"You two are _boring_ me. Go be _cute_ somewhere else." Moriarty said.

Sherlock stepped past John and knelt beside the body. He lifted the head by the hair. John half expected Toll to rise again, horror movie style. Sherlock allowed the head to slam back down to the floor once more. He stood up, looked to Moriarty.

"What happens now?"

A slight smile quirked the sides of the other's face. "You two leave. I'll fix it for you that no one will ever know what transpired here tonight."

"Sherlock, don't trust him." John felt his stomach twist in anxiety.

"Why would you do that?"

Moriarty shrugged. "Call it a favour that I'll expect to be repayed some day."

John held the weapon toward Moriarty once more.

"Calm down, tiger." Moriarty said.

"John, please." Sherlock sounded irritated.

"Don't you _touch_ him."

"Your over protectiveness is really starting to get on my nerves. Not everything is to do with sex, John. Get your damned mind out of the gutter. Certainly, if you're one day inclined to sample the delight that is Jim Moriarty, Sherlock, I'll be more than happy to oblige."

John let out a snarl.

"Don't you think it is more fun for us both to keep the sexual tension between us? Why spoil it?" Sherlock teased.

"Touché, my dear. Now, both of you, scram."

John stood rooted to the spot. "I don't trust him. And with good bloody reason."

"No." Sherlock said. "He won't go back on his word. Not this time. This goes beyond me."

Something passed between them. To John's immense surprise, a look of vulnerability came over Moriarty's face.

"Mycroft told you."

"You forget, Moriarty. I'm the best at what I do."

"I won't go back on my word." For a moment, Moriarty looked oddly diminished. Then he was back to the villainous persona once more.

Sherlock walked up to John and grabbed his hand. "Let's go."

John found himself being led by Sherlock out of the building and into the deserted alley that fronted it. "What the hell is going on?"

"Are you sure you're ok, John?" Sherlock turned to face him directly.

"That bastard! The things he was saying. I don't regret what I did. Not one bit. I wish I could go in there and shoot him twenty times over."

"I'm glad he's dead." Sherlock said.

John suddenly reached up and grabbed him by the neck, pulling his head down. Sherlock let out an exclamation of surprise that was covered by John's needy tongue. Both hungrily devoured each other's mouth. They released, both panting.

"I fucking love you, ok?" John kissed his nose. "I fucking love you so much." He kissed his chin.

"Maybe we should get out of this alleyway." Sherlock proposed.

"Yeah, a maybe that would be a great idea." He certainly didn't relish the idea of Moriarty walking out on them.

They crossed the alley to a small road, lined by terrace houses.

_Moriarty…_

"I still don't understand. Why would Moriarty do all of this? What does he want?"

Sherlock grabbed the hand that held the bandage and tenderly held it up.

"He broke your finger. He blamed you for what happened to me. Rather odd behavior. Really, why would he care?" Sherlock brought the hand down but still gently held it in his own.

"It's obvious that the man has a bloody great big crush on you."

"He was beyond enraged upon finding out that I was raped. He went out of hiding, to reveal to everyone that he'd faked his death. Then he tracked down the rapist himself and tortured him."

"He's a sociopath! He'll torture anyone."

"No, this is something different." He looked at John a long moment. "Come, John. The deduction is obvious!"

"What deduction?" John didn't care to get into the mind of one Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock lifted John's hand once more and looked at the bandaged finger, tenderly stroking his palm.

"At some point in Moriarty's murky past, he was also raped."


	12. Chapter 12

The two watched the weapon decrease in size, as it moved away from them, until it disappeared under the surface of the Thames. Sherlock noted the defeat underlying John's steely eyed gaze.

"I'm sorry you've now lost your service revolver. I know how attached you were to it." He placed a hand on John's arm.

"Not attached enough to risk Moriarty fingering me for the murder of Toby Toll and offering the bullets from my gun as proof."

"Hm…" Sherlock ruffled John's hair, in a show of consolation.

"Now we're going to have to get another bloody weapon. Who else are we going to have to kill?" John said with a completely straight face.

"You mean you. I haven't killed anyone." Sherlock turned from the bridge and crossed the footpath to be closer to the road, signaling to a taxi around twenty metres away.

"True, I am the expert marksman."

"That you are. I am an expert fencer. Perhaps we should buy a sword."

"They sell some very beautiful ones down the market." John continued in his straight man fashion.

The taxi pulled up beside them. They climbed into the back and asked to be taken to 221b Baker Street. Sherlock reached out and took John's hand, needing reassurance, comfort. The _big bad_ was dead, yes. But Sherlock wasn't considering that. Nor could he consider the credulity of Moriarty telling them to scat and that he would clean up the scene. The only thing replaying over and over Sherlock's mind, like a looped tape, was the words that Toll spoke, before John finally snapped and shot him. The flashback had been the most vivid yet. Toll's stench, his grunting, his sweat, dripping onto him, the disturbing slapping sound of flesh upon flesh. The overwhelming, almost impossible pain.

_"How does it feel to be broken in? You fucking love it. I know you're begging for it."_

He'd completely repressed that little gem, until Toll's taunting in the mill. He still felt inwardly shaky, removed from the situation.

I am not weak, he told himself. I am Sherlock Holmes. Genius consulting detective.

"Hey, you ok?" John asked. Sherlock forced his lips up into a smile.

"Fine, John. Fine."

John responded by squeezing his hand.

_Thank the decidedly non-deity universe for John Watson._

_###_

It took less than twenty minutes to arrive back at Baker Street. The taxi driver, perhaps sensing the anxiety from his passengers, drove like a maniac. Thankful to get back home, Sherlock gave him a twenty and told him to keep the change.

Upon entering the premises, he was unsurprised to see a very irate Lestrade standing before the stairs leading to their apartment.

Sherlock's lips quirked up. "Please tell me Anderson was punished severely for allowing me to wander off, by myself."

"Where the hell did you go?"

"I decided to go for a walk." Sherlock shrugged. "Get some fresh air. Where's Mrs. Hudson?"

"She's in her apartment. Sherlock-"

Sherlock stepped over to her apartment door and opened it without knocking.

"Is she ok?" He heard John ask behind him.

Mrs. Hudson sat in a chair, by the window overlooking the street, a little shaken but blessedly alright.

"Oh, Sherlock! They told me they wanted John! They threatened to hurt me-" She said, as Sherlock moved to kneel before her.

"It's ok, Mrs. Hudson. John's ok."

In that instant, there was a sharp knock of knuckles on wood.

"Yes, John. Come in." Sherlock called out.

"Inspector Lestrade told me there was a man that was after you and John. What's going on?"

The door opened and John stepped in, followed by Lestrade.

"Mrs. Hudson! I'm so sorry." John rushed over and squatted beside Sherlock, checking her over with medical precision.

"I'm ok. The paramedics already did a once over. I told them I don't want to go to hospital."

"Is she ok, John?"

"The paramedics-"

"I don't trust the paramedics." Sherlock cut in. "John?"

As John spoke, Sherlock noted the way the light from the window highlighted his hair, lending it a copper tinge. He felt a pleasant jolt to his stomach.

"Pupils dilated correctly to the light. Full sentences with no confusion. Breath steady with no wheezing or crackling. Erect posture. I concur with the paramedics. She'll be ok."

"Sherlock, we need to talk." Lestrade said gruffly.

"Not now!" Why didn't Lestrade see that Mrs. Hudson was his concern, right now?

"I'll talk to you." John stood up. He glanced to Sherlock, conveying all in his dark blue eyes.

_Don't worry, Sherlock. I won't give us away._

"I can at least explain what happened to me and Mrs. Hudson."

"Fine!" There was definite exasperation in Lestrade's voice. Sherlock inwardly smiled.

"Sherlock, if you're in trouble…"

"I'll be fine, Mrs. Hudson." He heard the other two depart the room, closing the door behind themselves.

"You're not fine. I'm no idiot. Someone hurt you, didn't they?" She looked him directly in the eye.

"Mrs. Hudson… it's part of the job-"

"No, this is different. I've known you for almost ten years. Something's very very wrong."

_"Thank you for a very entertaining evening."_

Sherlock could barely repress the shudder that went through his body.

"It's nothing, really. You needn't be concerned."

"Sherlock…." Mrs. Hudson reached out to take his hand. Sherlock snatched it away. He didn't want her to feel it tremble. Kindness overwhelmed her troubled brown eyes.

No, no no. He didn't want this. Refused to have her find out as well. This was Mrs. Hudson, damn it! She only ever treated him as she would her own son, no matter how curt he was with her. When would the humiliation end?

"I- I can't tell you. I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson." He stood up, legs feeling unsteady, like they'd collapse from under him.

She continued to gaze at him with those irritatingly pitiful eyes.

"I'm sorry you got hurt." Sherlock gulped. "That was truly unnecessary."

Both were silent a moment.

"John Watson. He's good for you. I'm happy for you, Sherlock. I really am."

"Yes, he is."

In that instance, the door slammed open. Lestrade's handsome face had discoloured two shades redder.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion, Mrs. Hudson."

He signaled Sherlock to come over.

"Just come through on the radio. Fire from the old paperback mill on Canary Road."

Sherlock nodded. Excitement started to germinate in his body.

"What is going on, Sherlock?"

"I don't know." Sherlock shrugged. "I told you, I just went out for a walk. Ran into John."

"And I'm the Queen of England. I moonlight as a secret agent on weekends." Lestrade spat.

"You must be incredibly fatigued." Sherlock retorted.

"There's more. There was a body found inside, burnt to a crisp. Unidentifiable, except for a gold pocket watch."

Sherlock inwardly smiled. _Good ol' Moriarty pulled through. Who'd have guessed?_

"I'll follow in the taxi behind."

"Are you sure you're ok to come?"

"John and I are already there."

###

Sherlock gingerly departed the vehicle, still mindful of his internal injuries. Though the copious amounts of painkillers he'd taken had dulled the pain, he didn't wish to risk potentially tearing his stitches. He stepped under the police tape, leaving John to pay the taxi driver. On his way to the front door, Donovan passed him. For once, she said nothing. She simply eyed him with an odd expression that it took a few moments to place.

Pity. The infernal woman actually pitied him.

_Damn it! Anderson told her!_

For a moment, he considered verbally attacking her but quickly decided against it. Really, what would it achieve? He sufficed with glaring at her before moving on. Walking up to the entrance, he noted the cigarette butts littering the step. Anderson came out of the doorway, following the police photographer.

"Ah, Anderson." He stood, waiting for the usual verbal barrage that didn't come. He noticed the dark circles under the other man's eyes.

"Lestrade's inside."

Sherlock felt the comfortable presence of John sidling up beside him. "Come along, John. Let's see what this crime scene has to offer."

He stepped into the now familiar room with a combined sense of anxiety and exhilaration. Knowing Moriarty, it would not be dull. Sherlock felt his sense of purpose return. This was what he was born for. This gave him mastery, control.

"The fire was incredibly contained." Lestrade waited for John to suit up in the protective gear and then led them to a small alcove, guarded by two giant hollow cylinders seated on their sides.

_Oh Moriarty, you've outdone yourself, this time._

A burnt wicker chair sat against the smoke discoloured wall. Ash covered the seat and floor. Lestrade handed Sherlock over the bagged pocket watch. Sherlock barely looked at it.

"Yes, this was undoubtedly Toll's. It has the distinctive dented surface. And of course, the inscription, which bears his initials."

Sherlock snapped on the latex gloves offered him by Lestrade and poked at the ashes. Toll had been reduced to a few charred bones, teeth and ash.

_Good, no bullets._

"The temperature would have been ten thousand degrees plus. How did such a massive temperature get confined to such a small space?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock held up a couple of strands of short blond hair.

_Placed by Moriarty, no doubt._

"DNA will confirm this to be Toll's hair."

"This is the body?"

_Moriarty's having fun._

"A case of spontaneous human combustion."

Lestrade looked at him as though he'd grown two heads. "There's no such thing."

"Certainly, I agree that it is not possible to set a person alight without an accelerant of some kind. Toll came here to hide out. He was smoking, while seated on the chair. There are cigarette butts outside of the brand that he smoked. DNA testing of his saliva will verify they were his. Overcome with exhaustion, he fell asleep. The cigarette tip started to burn his clothes. The fat of body acted as a wicker, effectively burning him from the inside out."

"Come now, you're telling me he burnt to death in his sleep?"

_Wonder what Moriarty used as the accelerant? Whatever it was, I'll bet it will be undetectable. Or, more likely, he placed the body in an incinerator and then staged this scene._

Sherlock knelt down, examining the floor around them. He pointed at a couple of pieces of broken glass. "A smashed whiskey bottle. No doubt, he had been drinking. The alcohol soaking his clothes would have acted as an accelerant."

"Why does this all seem fishy to me?"

"You will go through the dull official process of investigation to be brought to the same conclusion as me." Sherlock stood up and tore off his gloves. "Toll effectively killed himself. Perhaps it was suicide. Perhaps he doused himself in alcohol then lit himself on fire. I can't rule that out, either. What do you think, John?"

The doctor bore his usual startled crime scene expression.

"It's ah rare. Very rare, indeed. I've never come across it, in my practice. But I have seen experiments that have proved that, with an accelerant-"

"None of this seems to fit." Lestrade rubbed at his temples. He looked at John Watson, "You say you were kidnapped by Moriarty this morning, but managed to escape."

"Unrelated." Sherlock said. "Come, John. We have nothing more to do here."

He started to walk outside.

"Sherlock, I'll be wanting to talk to you." Lestrade called after him.

"You have my number." Sherlock didn't bother looking back.

###

To John Watson, this one day felt like a week. He felt utterly exhausted. Simply too much had happened. He longed to get home and sleep for at least ten hours. Upon arriving once more in Baker Street, Sherlock was insistent on checking up on Mrs. Hudson. John went straight up the stairs to their room. He collapsed into his favourite armchair, rubbing his eyes.

"Spontaneous human combustion." He said to himself, and laughed a little. He was beginning to suspect that Sherlock and Moriarty were both as nutty as each other. At least there was no possible way of relating the murder back to him. Even the blood on the floor had been cleaned. He giggled once more, aware that it was a psychological tact to deal with his current high level of stress.

The door opened and Sherlock stepped in, removing his scarf.

"I swear Sherlock-"

He was suddenly stopped by Sherlock's lips on his; his hungry tongue devouring is mouth. John moaned, reaching up to touch his hair, reveling in the soft curls through his fingers. Weight confirmed Sherlock climbing onto the chair to sit on him.

"Sherlock-" John began, feeling the consultant's lips on his neck. It felt too damned good. If Sherlock wasn't careful…

_Yep, there it is._

Only Sherlock's hand was suddenly…

 _Oh god…_ it was down there, groping at his erection through his trousers.

"Sherlock, wait."

Sherlock pulled back, a pink hue on his face, irises dilated, hair messed. The fact that he looked perfectly ravishable did not help John in his desire to not let things go too far. "Don't you think we should take the next step?"

Now, this did take him aback. "Huh?"

"Come, John. You want me, don't you?" He leant forward, whispering in John's ear. "Let's go to your room."

"Sherlock, this isn't-"

"You want to fuck me, John. I know it-"

_Alright, this stops right now._

"Sherlock stop!"

Sherlock laughed, kissed his neck, hand continuing to grope him through his trousers.

"I'll make it good for you-"

"I said stop!" He pushed Sherlock back. The consultant cried out as he fell backwards onto the floor.

"Shit, sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to-" John stood and reached his hand out to help Sherlock up.

"Get the hell away from me!" Sherlock scuttled back.

"What the hell is going on?"

"I understand." Sherlock stood, wiped the nonexistent dirt off his clothes. "If you weren't interested in sexual relations, you should have been clearer in the beginning."

_Damn it!_

John swallowed down the urge to start shouting. He took a few deep breaths, to calm himself.

"I'm exhausted. It's been a bloody long day. All I want is to relax by the TV. And no, I'm not interested in sexual relations right now because you're not." He wasn't going to add that Sherlock was taking the idea of them finally being together, in a sexual fashion, and twisting it, turning it into something repugnant and wrong. He noted the hurt that had crossed the consultant's face and tried a different tact.

"Sherlock… I want you. Bloody oath, I do. But only when you're ready, understand?"

"I just told you that I'm ready now! Can we just get it over and done with, already?"

_Ok, now he really is starting to test me._

"Because I don't want to, alright? I told you to stop!"

Sherlock's laughter sounded oddly detached. "Oh, that is a joke. You're acting like _I'm_ trying to _rape_ you."

_He's trying to get a rise out of you. Don't buy into it. Think rationally._

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I think I rushed into this… whatever this is, with you. It's too soon, after what happened with Toll. Maybe you're not ready to be with anyone at the moment-"

"You're rejecting me?" All of the colour drained from Sherlock's face.

"I want you to at least be on the road to recovery. And this…" He gestured between them. "I don't think it's helping."

Sherlock's eyes became unnaturally bright. John felt his stomach tighten.

_No, don't… don't…_

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I couldn't be your first. I should have fought more, should have known-" His voice trembled, as though he was struggling to keep the emotions in.

John felt like slapping himself in the face. He finally understood Sherlock's behaviour. Toll's taunts had affected him in such a way that he felt the need to prove himself. John reminded himself that he plugged two bullets into the bastard.

"Should have known what he was planning. What's the point of being a consulting detective if I can't even see what's right in front of me?"

John crossed the distance between them and pulled the taller man into his arms, hugging him fiercely.

"Please, John. I won't test you. I'll be good. Just please don't reject me."

"You can't promise that. You'll test me. You'll drive me crazy. That's the way you are."

Sherlock moved to pull away.

"All I was saying was that if it's hurting you more to be with me, then maybe we should take a break, for a while."

Suddenly, Sherlock was back, clinging to him, as though to bodily force them together. "Please, John. I'll be good. I won't bother you for sex."

_Damn, this is bloody twisted._

"Will you see someone?"

Sherlock was silent a long moment. John reminded himself that Sherlock was in no ways a fool.

"I love you, ok?" He kissed his neck. "I just want to do what's right for you."

Sherlock pulled away. "Everyone talks about what they think is right for me. What about what I think is right?"

John took a deep breath. "Sherlock, you know that people suffering from post traumatic shock disorder-"

"Like yourself." The consultant shot back.

"I saw a psychiatrist."

"Who was rubbish. I was the one who helped you. You told me, yourself."

_Damn, cornered._

"Ok, what do you think is right? Do you honestly think you could have had sex with me tonight and been fine with it?"

Sherlock was silent a long moment. "Perhaps not. But you would have been happy." He laughed a little. That same eerie coldness. "I thought that you wouldn't reject me because I'd be giving you what you wanted. But you've rejected me anyway."

It took all of John's control not to start shouting. He had to remind himself that this was about Sherlock's fractured psyche.

"I want to be with you. I'm more than happy with the way things are, at the moment. I'm in no rush. And I would not be happy for you to have sex just to please me. I'd feel like… I'd feel like a rapist."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but John continued.

"You don't have to see someone if you don't want to. And I wasn't rejecting you. I was just positing a solution. It would break my heart to let you go, it truly would. It's just that I wondered if this relationship is hindering your recovery. If so, then I would let you go. As I keep telling you, I want what's best for you."

Sherlock reached a hand up and caressed John's cheek. "What's best for me is to be with you. You are helping me, John."

John felt his body tremble. He felt as though he was about to collapse. The stress of the day was finally too much for him. He reached out and put his arms around the taller man.

"This is probably gonna sound cheesy but… Just hold me, Sherlock. Right now, I just need to be bloody held." He felt Sherlock's arms around him, long fingers circling his back. John buried his face in his neck. After a while, his trembling ceased. "We'll be ok. We'll figure it out." He pulled back enough to look into the other's beautiful, distraught face. _If I could kill that bastard again…_ "You know what, Sherlock? Fuck Toll! I don't count _rape_ as being a 'first'."

"Technically, I was a virgin-"

"I'm talking about having sex with someone you love. Sex that's not about pain and humiliation. When you're properly ready, I'll show you how beautiful it is."

"So, the great doctor Watson is guaranteeing me some rather hot and raunchy sexual relations, in the future?" Sherlock's mouth upturned in a sly grin.

"I guarantee to make you scream. We'll keep poor Mrs. Hudson awake."

This time, Sherlock's laughter was genuine and warm."Kiss me?"

"Oh god, yes."

Sharp knocking broke them apart moments later.

"That will be Mycroft." Sherlock sighed.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft stepped into the room, adjusting his fashionable silk tie. Though he knew nothing of the events from the few minutes before, he correctly deduced what had happened.

"What was the argument about?"

"When is mine and John's business ever a concern of yours?" Sherlock's voice had an edge to it. John held his usual stoic stance, though his lips flinched momentarily with tension. Ah, so this meant the fight was obviously due to something of an intimate nature.

"I take it you know about Canary Road?"

Mycroft felt his stomach ice over. "I was… momentarily called out of the country. Prince Phillip had…"

No. The other two didn't need to know about that.

"But, yes. I heard about the events. Rather coincidental that Moriarty decided to strike while I was away."

"So you're saying you would have stopped him?" John asked.

Mycroft almost laughed. _Could I have stopped him?_ "Certainly. I warned him not to be involved. But he went against my wishes."

_And for that, he will pay. I had everything under control. No one goes against my plans and gets away with it. Particularly, when it comes to Sherlock!_

Mycroft's smile grew wider.

"What are you saying? You talked to Moriarty?" John sounded flabbergasted. Sherlock frowned.

"He managed to sneak into the back seat of my car. Seemed he wanted to 'help out'. I told him firmly that his assistance was not needed."

"He wanted to work with you? I don't believe this!"

Mycroft didn't wish to discuss Moriarty any longer. He would deal with that little problem later.

You were the one to kill Toll, weren't you, John?"

He noticed the battle raging behind the man's dark eyes, the debate over whether or not to trust Mycroft with the truth. Mycroft had to admit, he respected the man for it.

"I have no regrets. I would do it again with no hesitation. The man wasn't human." John's battle seasoned irises darkened.

"And what do you think of John's actions today?" He looked at Sherlock.

His brother shrugged. "What's done is done."

All three were silent a moment.

"Well, it's been undoubtedly a long day for all. I suggest we all go out to dinner. My treat."

"Pass." Sherlock daintily waved him away.

"You misunderstand, Sherlock. I've already booked Altitude 360 for 7pm. I suggest you both change into more suitable attire."

###

John appeared down the stairs a few minutes after Sherlock. His fawn coloured suit, brown tie and white shirt rated very low on Mycroft's fashion radar. He opened his mouth to comment, but closed it again upon seeing Sherlock's frown. His brother had, at least, made more of an effort with a classic black suit, white shirt and tie.

"We can all go in my car." Mycroft suggested.

Within minutes, they had switched from the interior of apartment 221b, to the interior of Mycroft's car.

"Well, well this is familiar." John said.

Mycroft lightly tapped on the window behind him, signaling to the driver.

"Oh, and, of course, someone else drives."

The vehicle pulled away from the curb.

"My brother thinks such a task as driving to be far beneath him." Sherlock replied. "Not when he's got countries to take over."

'My dear brother, when was the last time that you got behind the wheel?"

Sherlock scowled. Good, Mycroft thought. That shut him up.

"London is a death trap for motorists. I prefer taxis." Sherlock murmured.

###

The dinner was not half as excruciating as his usual meals with Sherlock, thanks, in part to John. He kept the conversation flowing, filling in the gaps in the awkward pauses. Mycroft had deliberately taken them to a buffet, so they could, at least, not have to sit with each other for long periods. He had filled his plate with seafood, pasta salad, sliced ham, sliced beef, rice, meatballs and oriental noodles for the third time and was headed back to the table when he noticed that the other two were having an intimate moment. They faced each other across the candlelit table, Sherlock's palms facing upwards. John tenderly stroked his wrists. Mycroft stood for a moment, plate in hand. There was something in Sherlock's expression, a vulnerability he had never seen before. John was talking to him and Sherlock looked at him with such… what was it? Hope? Yearning? Love? All three and more? Mycroft couldn't place it. Then Sherlock laughed and the spell was broken. Mycroft moved closer to the table and the two instantly pulled apart. John picked up his knife and fork and started to cut up his pork slice. Sherlock had barely eaten anything. Mycroft returned to his place, next to John.

"I really would prefer it if you at least added a bit more food to your plate, Sherlock."

"Oh, please, Mycroft. You are being utterly ridiculous."

"Look at John. There's a healthy young man."

John and Sherlock looked to each other and burst out laughing.

"I need to be careful how much I eat, Mycroft. Unlike Sherlock, I don't have a fast metabolism."

"Sherlock has no metabolism. With the little that he eats, I'm surprised that he's still functioning."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft and reached across, with his fork, to pick up a piece of pork from John's plate, putting it in his mouth.

"Better." Mycroft dug into his own food and started voraciously chowing down.

"Living in the same house as Mycroft, John, you start to develop less of an appetite for food." Sherlock glared at his brother.

"In my house, I was always the big eater. Harry was always going on diets. Me, I wasn't bothered."

"You have nothing to be bothered about." Sherlock turned his attention back to his boyfriend.

"Oh so you're going to be watching my figure?" John teased.

"Why would I do that?"

John looked at Mycroft, as though for help. Mycroft wasn't bothered. He was too busy enjoying the food. "It was a joke, Sherlock."

"Oh… well it wasn't a very good one."

John laughed. "No, I guess it wasn't."

Mycroft swallowed his mouthful. "Sherlock, I have a task for you that I think you'll enjoy. I want you to look up three names for me in the police archives. Discretion is important, in this case."

'Why should I?"

Mycroft laughed. "Oh I think you'll find this to be very informative."

Sherlock frowned. "Ok, what are the names?"

###

At one point, on the way back to 221b Baker Street, John put his arm around Sherlock's waist and rested a hand on his knee. Sherlock then placed his hand on top of John's. This occurred during a conversation about family Christmases. There was no break in the conversation, no attention called to the simple body movements. Indeed, they appeared natural, almost instinctual. Neither appeared to even be aware that they'd done it. Although Mycroft _worried_ _constantly_ about his brother, he couldn't help but inwardly find the whole situation rather gratifying. He repeated his mantra that if John hurt his brother in any way, then he would regret it. No one dared to ever cross him. It would be amusing to see someone try.

As Moriarty would soon find out.

The car pulled up to the familiar apartment block.

"Thank you for an enjoyable evening, Mycroft." John said.

Sherlock froze. "Yes, very entertaining." He said, numbly. Mycroft noted that his face had suddenly paled.

"Sherlock?"

"Good night, Mycroft." He quickly scuttled out of the vehicle, rushing for the front door as though he was a marathon athlete competing for the best time.

Mycroft looked to John for an explanation.

"Damn it." John said under his breath. "Flashback. Anything can trigger them. I'd better go make sure he's ok." He opened the back door to climb out.

"How often do these happen?" Mycroft frowned.

"At this point maybe once, twice a day." He appeared to hesitate. "It's just part of the trauma process. Thank you again for tonight."

John departed the vehicle, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft watched him open the door to the apartment block.

_Toll's dead but Sherlock hasn't even begun to heal._

He made a vow to visit in the next week. This time, he'd convince his brother to see his psychiatrist. If Sherlock refused, then he'd simply force him.

_Sorry, Sherlock. It's for your own good._

###

He lay side on, on the couch, facing forwards, eyes vacant.

"When does it stop?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know."

_I'd chop of my own arm to make you better! Damn Toll. Hope he's enjoying hell._

"I want to be normal again."

John lifted Sherlock's legs and sat down on the couch, resting his sock clad feet on his lap. "You were never normal." He started massaging Sherlock's soles.

"I want to delete it all. Why should I remember my _rapist_ _thanking me_ for an entertaining evening? Why does my brain deem it necessary?"

John breathed out, squashing down his convoluted emotions.

"It had been building for days. His taunts, his harassment. I should have stopped him."

John was aware that self-blame was a common trait among rape victims. It pained him, however to hear Sherlock speak in this way.

"Sherlock, none of this is your fault."

"If I'd seen, if I wasn't so arrogant-"

"Seen what? Are you going to blame me as well? Or Lestrade? None of us saw!"

"But I'm a consulting detective! I'm _meant_ to pick up on things that others don't."

_Damn it Sherlock!_

"Ok, what about Moriarty, then? You'd agree he's equal to you in intellect. And you say that he was raped, as well. In your reasoning, he should have stopped it. Your logic is flawed, can't you see?"

Sherlock was silent a long moment. "Yes, you're right. Of course, John. I just wish I could stop feeling like I'm the one who did something wrong. Like I'm the disgusting one."

"You did nothing wrong. I don't care how many times I have to say it. And you're not disgusting. What _happened_ was disgusting. But you're not."

Sherlock rolled onto his back to look at John.

"I honestly wonder how you put up with me, at times."

"As I keep telling you, I'm glutton for punishment." John smiled, then climb up the couch and drape himself over the consulting detective, his head on his chest.

"You're heavy." Sherlock said. John felt long fingers go through his short hair strands. He could ear the strong pulse of Sherlock's heartbeat.

"You make a good pillow. Good strong heartbeat.'

"Always the doctor."

John smiled, liking the feeling of warmth, comfort. He could stay like that forever, if need be.

"Those three names Mycroft gave us…"

"Mmm…?"

"I wonder what that's about."

"Mmm…"

"John?" The tone of Sherlock's voice made John lift his head, to look him in the eye. "Thank you for still staying with me. I know other people call me a freak-"

"Well, you are. But then so am I." He leant down and slowly kissed him on the lips. "I love you, freak. Got that?"

Sherlock smiled in a way that increased John's heart rate tenfold.

###

"John?"

John had been having a rather odd dream, in which he could twist his head all the way around, like an owl. He supposed waking with a very sore neck may have had something to do with it. A grinning, dressed Sherlock stood before him. He was wearing his usual black coat and the red scarf John had given him. John rose and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

"Morning sexy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't say that, John. You sound like Moriarty."

"Hm... how about I rephrase.'Morning unsexy.'" John pretended to scrutinize Sherlock's face. "Yep, definitely not the least bit sexy."

"Aren't you going to urinate, troll? We've got work this morning so get changed."

"Troll?" John laughed. "I don't think anyone in my entire life has ever called me that. Thank you for a first."

He disappeared into the bathroom to urinate, and then returned to the lounge. Sherlock had turned on the television and was flicking through the channels.

"I can't believe we fell asleep on the couch-"

"Shush!" Sherlock ordered. The television showed a reporter standing before the paperback mill on Canary Road.

"The body found inside has been verified to be Detective Inspector Toby Toll. DI Toll was recently accused of raping Irish politician Damien O'Toole." The television cut to a photo of the Irishman. John was again struck how similar looking he was to Sherlock. "A diary found in Mr. O'Toole's possessions-"

Sherlock switched the television off. "No talk of spontaneous human combustion."

John burst out laughing.

"What?"

"You have to admit that it's beyond crazy."

Sherlock's lips upturned. "Go get dressed."

"Where are we going?"

"Police station."

"Why?"

"To look up the three names Mycroft gave us."

"Oh… ok."

###

"The investigation is still ongoing, so if you're here-" Lestrade intercepted John and Sherlock, as they passed his office.

"Why would I be concerned about that?" Sherlock asked. "I already told you my conclusions. I'm here for a different matter. May we go into your office?"

Lestrade eyed him with some suspicion but allowed all three to step through the glass door, closing it behind them.

"I need to look up three names in police archives."

"Ok." Lestrade looked to John, who frowned back at him.

_Don't ask me._

"Do the names Arnold Legato, Mark Phillips and Joseph Robertson mean anything to you?"

Lestrade's brow creased in concentration. "No. Sorry, Sherlock. They don't sound familiar, but then we do process many crimes per year. I'm assuming they are either victims or perpetrators of one?"

"That's what I'm here to find out."

"Hm… well what I can do is get Sally to look them up on the computer. If the crime is less than ten years old, they should be in the system."

"And if it's not?"

"Well, there are always the paper archives."

###

"Sherlock…"

"Hm…" Sherlock picked up another folder and went through it

The paper archive room consisted of six long aisles, at least twenty feet in length, and seven feet in height. These were filled with rows of boxes containing folders.

"Whoever organized this should be fired. There's absolutely no cohesion to any of it. We could be here for weeks!"

"This one hit her husband over the head with a baseball bat because he complained that the dinner was overdone." Sherlock slammed the folder shut and picked up another one.

"I'm going through the L's, right? But someone's thrown in a few G's, oh and here's a C." John complained.

Sherlock picked up another folder, not even looking at him.

"Why are you even bothering with this? You usually don't care about Mycroft's errands."

Sherlock simply smiled at him.

###

Three hours later, Sherlock picked up a folder, started to skim it, and then did a triumphant whop.

"Who is it?" John asked.

"Mark Phillips Break and entering. Rape. Assault. Found murdered, execution style on Brixton Road thirteen years ago. It seems his favourite past-time was beating and raping young gay men. Oh… oh!"

"What?"

Sherlock slammed the folder shut. "I have to get to Bart's. Find the other two folders." He folded the folder in half and shoved it into his coat.

"Why do you have to get to Bart's?"

"One of the doctors may be still there."

"Huh?"

"One of the doctors that treated him, of course."

"Treated who?"

"Just, keep looking for the other two folders!"

###

He stood before the familiar building. Nothing ominous about it, really. Its blocky grey architecture was duplicated in many buildings throughout London. Yet it felt as though someone had slammed their fist hard into his stomach. His hands felt shaky. He placed them into his coat pockets.

It's a building, he chided himself. It's impossible for a building to be harmful. He took a few deep breaths and stepped into the familiar doors.

Once inside, he focused all of his attention on making his way to the emergency room. He certainly wasn't going to think about the labs. No, there was no reason to think of them. None at all.

He circumvented the various halls, getting lost in the maze of signs. Finally, he arrived at the waiting room, before the ER. A quick check on his mobile phone confirmed that a Dr. Lawrence Caspian had been working the emergency room for fifteen years.

A baby's ear piercing scream broke the uneasy silence of the frazzled yet bored looking patients. A little girl stared up at him with big brown eyes. He ignored her and stepped straight up to the front desk.

"I'm looking for Dr. Caspian."

"He's rather busy at the moment-"

"I'm a consulting detective. I think he'll want to talk to me. It won't take long."

The woman glared at him but paged the doctor.

###

Dr. Caspian turned out to be a long shot. No, he didn't recall bringing in a male rape victim from thirteen years before. Did Sherlock know how many patients they went through a night? Sherlock had retorted that _he_ would remember and then admonished the doctor for his tiny brain. The doctor's demeanor got decidedly icier after that.

He traversed the familiar halls, not even realizing he'd managed to walk straight into the room until it was too late.

So, here it was. He stepped up to the microscope and put his hand on it, the familiar texture sating, welcoming him back. This was instrument he'd been looking into, when he first met John Watson. He walked further around and placed his hand on the bench.

_Clean. Like nothing happened here. Toll must have cleaned up, after. Or did I?_

His brain felt fuzzy, undefined.

He knelt down to examine the legs. Definite scratch marks, from where the handcuffs had scraped across the metal when he struggled.

_Tired so hard to get away…_

He sat down on the floor, his head in his hands. Vertigo suddenly spun the room.

He was going to-

Sherlock rushed to the bin, at the side of the room, managing to get there just in time. He looked down at the small amount he vomited up. Just coffee and water. A piece of toast. His stomach clenched once more. Only nothing was coming up. His throat felt dry, raw.

Sherlock was finally able to put his head up, his entire body felt shaky, unsteady. He forced himself to a standing position.

"Sherlock!"

He spun around. Molly stood in the doorway, smile frozen.

"Are you alright? I haven't seen you in a while-"  
"Fine. I'm just leaving."

"Are you sure? You don't look well-"

"I said I'm fine!" He snapped.

She flinched. "Ok, that's ok."

Sherlock wasn't going to talk to her, of all people, about his current problems.

"I guess I'll er… see you around." She said, as he passed. He didn't bother to reply.

###

It wasn't until he was outside that he felt able to breathe. He loosened his scarf and closed his eyes, relishing in the oxygenation of his lungs.

"I'm telling you, that bloody hospital food is rank, mate." Two men walked in front of him, both wearing paramedic uniforms. The grey-haired one looked to be in his fifties. The other was much younger.

"Excuse me."

Both spun around. "You alright, mate? You don't look too well." The grey-haired man said.

"Can I ask, how long have you been working as a paramedic?"

"Me? About twenty years."

"And you have serviced this area, in all that time?"

"Mainly. Why the twenty questions, mate?

"I work as a consulting detective. Can I ask you something… in private?"

"What's a consulting detective?" The younger one asked.

Sherlock smiled. "I invented the job. The police call me when their out of their league."

"So, the police are out of their league with something, are they?"

"Please…" Sherlock pulled the older man away from the younger one. "I'm interested in a specific case. Cast your mind back thirteen years."

"Thirteen years? That's a long time."

"This one you may recall. It involves the gang rape of a nineteen year old man."

The paramedic stiffened. "You don't tend to forget those ones. There were a few of those around that time. A few of the others picked them up. Rumour is that the ones responsible were found executed. Good riddance, I say."

Sherlock felt his heart start to race with excitement. This was fitting in with what he'd deduced.

"Yeah, we did pick up this young lad. High off his head on heroin. They really did a number on him. We treated him as best we could but he took off before we could take him to hospital."

"Do you remember what he looked like? Did he have dark brown eyes and brown hair? A slight Irish accent?"

The paramedic appeared to consider it. "Yeah, I think, from memory, he did have an Irish accent. If it helps, I remember his name. He wouldn't give us his last name but kept saying his first over and over again."

"His name was Jim."

The paramedic nodded.

_Got ya, Jim Moriarty._

"Tell me everything."

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Reference to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The Redheaded League'.

The dispatch had come in merely minutes before.

"Sexual assault of a male on Brixton Road, in the alley next to the Lucky Sun restaurant. Police are on their way."

The naked, bruised and bloodied figure lay, curled up in a trembling ball, at the far end of the alleyway, amongst the overflowing rubbish of a nearby dumpster. The paramedics approached him stealthily, eyes and ears alert to any danger.

"You ok, mate?"

The figure's response was to curl even further into himself.

"Mate, we're here to help." The paramedic gestured to his partner, who nodded and went back up the cramped space to the ambulance. The closest they could park was at the mouth.

The one standing over the trembling man wondered who had called it in. Clearly, it wasn't the victim. "My name's Frank. What's yours?"

Finally, the figure looked up. Big brown eyes. The emaciated frame was of one deep in heroin addiction.

"Jim… Jim. Jim!"

"Good. Ok, I'm going to take your blood pressure and pulse, and then check your breathing. Is that alright?"

The man couldn't have been more than twenty. He nodded.

"Can you give me your arm?"

A shaking hand reached out and did as he bid.

As he took the readings, the partner returned with a blanket, and silently placed it over the shivering figure.

"What happened here tonight?" He asked. Jim shivered even more violently.

"It's ok. We're not the police. We just want to know what happened, so we can give you the best medical treatment."

"Sick." Jim moaned.

"Ok." The paramedic pulled away, just in time for Jim to vomit all over the muddy ground.

"Better out than in, 'ey?"

Jim ignored him, continuing to tremble, pulling the blanket further around himself.

"What happened tonight? Someone hurt you?" The man spoke softly.

Jim shook his head

"It's ok, son."

"I was… I just went to the pub, for a few drinks. Three men followed me. They beat me up."

Frank frowned at his partner. "Son…" He began.

Jim pulled violently away.

"Son, we're here because we received a call that a man had been sexually assaulted, in this alley."

A soft sob issued out from Jim's throat. "They beat me up. That's all."

"Son-"

"I said that's all!" He suddenly jumped up, clutching the sheet closer to him, sprinting down the alleyway.

###

Everyone had a weakness. Jim's was the fact that he was so changeable. He had liked Mycroft, had debated, back and forth in his head, whether it was pertinent to try to work with him, in regards to getting justice for Sherlock. Jim saw Sherlock's' brother as more in keeping with his own ideology. He seemed to have no qualms in getting his hands thick with dirt. Or, rather, getting his underlings' hands thick with dirt. What Sherlock didn't know about his brother could fill entire novels.

When one of his sources told Jim that Sherlock was prying around the hospital, asking doctors about a rape victim from thirteen years before, Jim had felt his entire body freeze, his stomach jump into his throat. He didn't need to use his genius mind to figure out what had happened.

Mycroft had told Sherlock about is past, in revenge for his interference with Toby Toll.

For a few hours, he decided to simply leave it be. That knowledge gave Sherlock no power over him. Preferable to let Sherlock go on his little fact finding expedition. Jim would continue to soak in the heated spa of the five star hotel.

But then, he was so changeable.

What right, did Mycroft have to dig up his past? What did it achieve, if only to humiliate him further? He had always kept it so successfully secret. No one in the criminal community knew of that terrible night. He'd deliberately wiped any trace of it all.

In particular regards to the three responsible, he'd very satisfactorily tracked each of them down and shot them, in point blank range, in the face. The ringleader was a man with lank long brown hair and a spider web tattoo branching out across his shoulder and chest. He was the one who threw the first punch. Jim had fought them but, at three to one, was overpowered.

"Let's give the fag what he wants." The ringleader's voice, signaling the start of the horror, was surprisingly high pitched.

This was also the one that kept asking him how much he was 'enjoying' the atrocities committed upon his person, who encouraged the others to reach deeper into the depths of depravity.

Finally tracking the man down, led to the first and only time in his life, that Jim felt utterly thrown. Here was a face he saw every time he closed his eyes. Here was a man who not only raped his body, but also decimated what little good was left in his soul. Yet, when confronted, the ringleader looked at him with blank eyes.

It was clear he had no idea who Jim was.

Jim shot him six times in the face. Later, he admonished himself for losing control. He vowed to never do that again.

He recalled the pain. How they'd laughed at his humiliation. His pride in determining not to beg them to stop, no matter how much they hurt him.

And for Mycroft to simply parade his secret as though it was of no consequence…

Moriarty felt himself bristle with fury.

Indeed he was so changeable. He wouldn't let this one go.

Particularly as he'd just done them a favour. And this was how he was repaid.

No, they'd be punished.

Mycroft would regret ever even hearing the name Jim Moriarty.

Smiling to himself, Jim climbed out of the spa and headed to his towel. A nice glass of champagne would aid in his planning.

###

John scrambled up from the couch, as the key turned in the lock.

"Hello John." Sherlock took off his scarf and coat and put them on the coat rack, then walked over to the blazing fire. "Thanks for getting this going."

"What the hell is going on, Sherlock?"

"Did you find the other two folders?"

John frowned. "No. I'm sorry; I guess I can come back tomorrow."

Sherlock shook his head. "No need. I have all the information I need."

"Information on what?"

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, warming them by the blaze. He appeared to be deliberately drawing it out. John waited. Finally, impatience got the better of him.

"Information on what?"

"The three men that Mycroft had us look up raped Moriarty thirteen years ago."

John found himself momentarily speechless.

_The criminal mastermind… raped…_

"This… happened?"

Sherlock favoured him with a disgruntled look. "Of course it happened!"

"No, I mean… this is rather shocking…"

He didn't want to add that he now felt something he never thought possible, for the arch criminal.

Pity.

"Don't pity him too much, John. It doesn't change his sociopathic nature. If you'll recall he killed Carl Powers as a child."

John pulled a chair up to sit beside Sherlock, grabbing his hand.

"How did you find out?"

Sherlock briefly explained meeting up with the paramedic who had attended Moriarty. John digested it all. Not only raped but _gang_ raped. Beaten. His head started to spin.

Then there was the drug factor.

"The paramedic thought Moriarty was high?"

_Our arch criminal mastermind was a junkie. Who knows, maybe even still is…_

"Certainly." Sherlock laughed. "Yet another way in which we are both equal. I, too dabbled, in my younger years, as Lestrade revealed to you. Although my drug of choice was cocaine."

John felt the usual clenching of his stomach, whenever Sherlock mentioned his old 'problem'. Moreover, what did Sherlock mean by the word 'equal'?

"Yes, I do feel a certain kinship towards that man, if truth be told."

"Kinship?" John pulled his hand away. "He tried to descredit you! He tried to force you to commit suicide!"

Sherlock shot him an irritated look, folding his arms. "We are intellectually superior to others; we both share the same horrific back stories. We both enjoy the game-"

"Well, you too should be very happy together." John snapped.

Sherlock eyed him carefully a moment. "Ah… you're jealous. John-"

"I'm not jealous! I'm simply trying to point out the ridiculousness of this current conversation. The man is an insane sociopath. I'm sorry if he was raped, but it doesn't absolve what he's done."

"John." Sherlock took his hand, once more. "I'm not interested in Moriarty. Intellectually, yes. But I'm in love with you."

John felt himself calm down, somewhat.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine." Sherlock said, in a voice that said it wasn't. Both were silent a long moment.

"Maybe I should see what we have for dinner."

"Not hungry." Sherlock said.

"Well, I am." John stood. "I'll see what we have in the pantry."

###

The reality television series about cooking, that John insisted on watching, was razors in his brain. Sherlock started to kiss him simply to spare himself the agony of watching any more. The doctor responded with a passion he'd never shown before. Sherlock found this animal side tantalizing… He longed to know more.

_Moriarty. The mention of that name brought this about. How interesting…_

He allowed John to push him backwards into the couch, forsaking his mouth to kiss his throat. John's lips were chapped, his bristly stubble brushing his neck with each movement. He smelt of peanut butter and burnt wood. Sherlock moaned, sliding a hand under John's shirt to feel the burning hot flesh of his stomach. John looked up, irises dilated.

"You ok?"

"More."

There was a hint of a smile on the doctor's face before he started feasting on his ( _unmarred. Yes, he noticed his neck that morning_ ) flesh again. ( _not bruised not strangled._ _Fine all was fine.)_ John was unbuttoning his shirt, trailing kisses down his chest as he did so. Sherlock found himself suddenly frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. ( _can't tell him to stop… he won't listen… stop this! This is John. He won't hurt you._ )

John kissed his way up his chest once more. He was positioned in such a way that his groin wasn't touching Sherlock's.

_Because he's erect. Stimulated by seeing you vulnerable beneath him-_

_Stop this!_

"You're so bloody gorgeous." John said, punctuating each word with a kiss.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He was enjoying the interaction, wasn't he? He felt stimulated. Clearly John was enjoying himself. So why did he want it to stop?

John looked up.

"Sherlock-" The half smile instantly fell. "Oh Sherlock, I'm sorry." He instantly pulled away, putting some distance between them. "I'm so sorry."

"It's ok." Sherlock moved to kiss him. "Keep going."

John squirmed out of Sherlock's grasp. "Damn it, I'm an idiot-"

"Why would you say that?"

"I should have stopped, should have known…" He took Sherlock's hand and kissed it. "Forgive me?"

"You haven't done anything wrong."  
"Apart from molest you."

"You didn't molest me! I wanted it." _I want John. I want to feel his lips, his hands, his…Damn Toll!_

John frowned. "I don't want to do anything you don't want to. And I don't want you to feel pressured, ok?" He put his head in his hands. "God, I'm such a fucking idiot."

"John." Sherlock moved over to put his arms around him, to kiss his head. "Don't call yourself an idiot. That's my job."

John didn't reply. After a long moment, he finally looked up. "Sherlock, do you know the concept of a 'safe' word?"

"A what?"

"Here's my idea. We'll pick a word, any word. As long as it's not erotic. And when we're… if you feel in any way uncomfortable, you say the word, ok? And I'll stop straight away."

"I wanted to say stop, this time. But, for reasons that go beyond my rational mind, I simply couldn't. The words wouldn't come."

John nodded. "That's completely normal, considering what you've been through. I will never hurt you. I can say it, but the sanctity of your being has been breached. It's going to take some time to trust someone again."

Sherlock nodded, the frustration building in his body, once more. He needed to work harder to have his intellect overcome his emotions.

"You like the idea of a safe word?" John prodded.

"Ok, we'll go with hydrogen chloride."

John considered it. "Maybe go with something a little smaller. Although I admit it's not the least bit sexual."

"Blood." Sherlock shrugged.

"No!"

Sherlock was surprised at John's vehement reaction.

"Lion's mane? As in the jellyfish? A few months before I met you I broke an interesting case involving one of those."

"How about salt?" John suggested.

"Salt? Dull."

"That's the point."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Salt it is."

###

As it turned out, in the next week, the word did not need to be used. John was careful to accept the odd kiss and cuddle from Sherlock, but would not allow it to progress any further.

In this time, Sherlock seemed reluctant to leave the house. Instead, he stayed inside, constantly borrowing John's laptop to look up information on cases sent to him from Lestrade. He was becoming frantic, sometimes not speaking to John for hours on end. This was so like the old Sherlock.

For John, this was the issue.

Sherlock had swung too wildly from a man on the edge of a breakdown, to a man seemingly in control of everything, within a week. Sherlock was undoubtedly talented and of supreme intellect, but John was doubtful that he had recovered so quickly so fast.

John woke up one Tuesday morning to the usual empty bed. Sherlock had taken to falling asleep after him and waking up before him. John was already starting to miss the sensation of falling asleep holding the great detective in his arms. He climbed out of bed and yawned, stretching and glancing at the clock. 9.15am, not that he had anywhere to go to. Not that he ever had anywhere to go to.

He clumped down the stairs, to Sherlock at the kitchen table, laptop before him. A usual sight, these days.

"I have a peculiar case, sent to me from a man who claims to have been offered a membership to an organization known as the 'red headed league'."

"Mmm hmm…" To hell with it. John really wanted to kiss him. He was looking simply too adorable, sitting there in his silk dressing gown.

"I am rather satisfied that such an organization does not exist, which begs the question-"

John put his arm around his chest and kissed his cheek. "I love you."

"Oh… I love you too." Sherlock seemed surprised by the sudden outpouring of emotion. Smiling to himself, John wandered to the kitchen. "Which begs the question why these people told him such an organization exists."

The fridge contents consisted of a moldy piece of bread, something rather undistinguishable (John suspected that Sherlock had started his experiments again) and a couple of cans of soda. John tried to remember the last time either of them had gone shopping and came up with a blank.

"We need to buy some food."  
"Mm… hm…" Sherlock was intent on the laptop, once more.

John hesitated to leave Sherlock alone, even for a few minutes.

"I'll be fine." Sherlock looked up from the bright screen. "Your condescension is beginning to irk me."

_Condescension?_

John bit his tongue from reminding Sherlock that the last time he deliberately left him alone in the house, for more than a few minutes, he broke most of their dishes.

"My wallets in my coat, on the coat rack by the front door. Use my card."

Sherlock waved him away.

John stood, unsurely a moment.

"Please leave. I'm busy."

_Too much like the old Sherlock. Something's not right._

But then, they did need to buy food.

He intended to be very quick, indeed.

###

Very quick indeed, turned out to be longer than he expected. The intricacies of fate had the supermarket utterly packed, at that time of day, the line at least ten people deep at each counter. When he finally got to the front, there seemed to be an issue with Sherlock's card. It took three swipes before it finally was accepted. A red-faced John was more than happy to depart.

Thankfully, the roads were relatively clear, and, after the initial kerfuffle, he arrived back at apartment 221b in timely fashion.

"I would be very obliged if you would just depart, right now." He heard, as he turned the key in the lock.

"This isn't in my hands, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice.

John opened the door to the two brothers facing each other across the apartment. Sherlock had his arms folded, face fixed in a glare.

"What's going on?" John closed the door behind himself.

"Ah, John." Mycroft smiled. "Now you're here, you can help me convince your brother to accept my offer for him to see a very good therapist, free of charge."

"John, you shouldn't have opened the door. Mycroft is leaving."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft's tone was both patronizing and brotherly. "If you don't see Dr. Burke, then I will be forced to take… drastic measures."

"You can't threaten me! Just try it!"

"It's for the best, Sherlock, surely you know-"

"What do you mean, 'drastic measures'?" John cut in.

Mycroft's dark eyes darted across to him. "Sherlock is unwell. Smashing dishes then stepping on them. He's been under a lot of stress. I fear for his safety."

John felt his stomach clench. He didn't even bother asking how Mycroft knew about the smashed dishes.

"I can get people to be here in fifteen minutes, Sherlock."

"There's nothing wrong with me! Tell him, John."

John wasn't going to lie. But then, he refused to have Mycroft have his way, either.

"You would lock up your own brother?"

"If it came to that, yes. He isn't himself. You know that. You've seen it."  
"I told you, I'm fine. I'm working again-"

"I'll say no more on the matter. Be at the address I told you at 9am tomorrow, or I will be forced to take alternative measures."

"Mycroft, you-"

But the elder brother was already walking towards the door, pausing to pick up his umbrella.

"You can't do this to me!"

Mycroft didn't even turn, as he stepped out the door.

"I refuse to go!"

"Sherlock." John realized he hadn't put down all of the shopping. As a result, his tendons were aching. He dropped the bags to the ground, feeling his muscles veritably sigh from the relief of strain. "I don't think you have a choice."

"He can't make me do anything I don't want to."

"If you don't they'll… they'll take you away."  
"I am not insane!"

"Of course not. But you've-"

"Ah yes, say it again and again. Everyone remind me of the one thing I want to forget. Yes, I was raped. A man… a disgusting man not worthy of… of breathing in the same air as me, forced sexual relations with me. But that's in the past. It's over. I've moved on."

John slowly counted to ten, in his own head.

"Why are you looking at me like that? I refuse to be a victim anymore, so you can cease in acting like I am."

John had the sudden image of a dog chasing its own tail, go through his mind.

"I… I agree with Mycroft." John felt his heart fall into his stomach at the way Sherlock's face suddenly paled. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I love you but I can't… I can't deal with this on my own. I want you to start to heal. That's all anyone wants."

"Damn you both! I am better."  
"You can pretend all you want, Sherlock but we both know it isn't true. Immerse yourself in your work to stop from feeling the pain. I know the feeling-"

"You don't know anything about what I've gone through."

John stepped closer, went to take Sherlock's hand. Sherlock pulled away, moved across the room and sat on the couch.

This is going well, he thought sarcastically. He took a deep breath.

_Just try reasoning._

"As a soldier, I just couldn't deal with everything I saw. I threw myself into the work because to think about, to truly think about-"

Only Sherlock wasn't listening. He was staring vacantly ahead, muttering the same phrase over and over.

"I am not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy."

John felt something click in his head, like a veritable key fitting snugly into a slot. He understood, more than ever, why Sherlock needed to talk to someone professional.

He stepped over and knelt before Sherlock, positioning himself in his eye line. "Seeing a psychiatrist doesn't make you crazy."

"Yes, it does. You and Mycroft clearly think I've gone insane."

"No… Sherlock…we think you're trying to deal with a horrible thing that's happened to you. Something that should never have happened. If I'd have seen sooner…" He shook his head. "Being of genius intellect doesn't make you infallible. Anyone who's gone through what you went through would need professional help! Damn it, Sherlock, you know I saw a therapist after the war. Do you think I'm insane?"

"I just want things to go back to the way they were before." Sherlock said quietly. John felt his heart break a little.

"They won't be entirely the same. They can't. But you have me. All of me. You didn't have that before."

He reached out and took his hand. It felt icy. 'You're cold."

Sherlock allowed John to lead him to the fireplace and sit down. He was quiet while the doctor fussed around with logs and firelighters, before finally lighting it, then pulling up the chair next to Sherlock's.

"Ok, I'll go. I'm skeptical he can make any difference whatsoever." He reached across and took John's hand. "I want to be with you… fully." Sherlock leant forward and kissed John soundly on the mouth. "I think we deserve that."

John felt his heart start to race. The thought of making love to Sherlock… no, he wasn't going to go there. Too soon.

He didn't care how many times he had to repeat it until Sherlock finally comprehended what he was saying.

"Only when you're one hundred percent ready."

"You must be disappointed." Sherlock looked away.

"Disappointed about what, exactly? About going on the most exciting, crazy adventures? Or about finally meeting the person who makes every part of my life have meaning?" He brought his hand up to kiss it. "Or to be privileged enough to be allowed to kiss your hand. You know what; you're not the crazy one. I am. Or, at least I feel that way, at times."

He had the great detective's full attention, now.

"Even before we got together, I thought about you, day and night. Everything reminded me of you. Even now, if we're apart and you text, it's a glorious day for one John Watson. It's like you've stolen me away from myself. And you know what, it's bloody fantastic!"

Sherlock held an odd expression. John felt himself start to redden, thinking perhaps that he'd gone too far.

"You're succinct words echo how I felt and continue to feel about you."

John felt like bouncing around the room. Crazy! Both bloody crazy. Instead, he leant forward for a sating kiss, once more.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to 'The Valley of Fear'.

Soft lips skimmed across his ear, his neck. Long fingers lightly caressed his belly, sending thrills up his spine, blood pooling in his groin. John rolled, latching his mouth onto Sherlock's, gently lathing their tongues together. They released. The great detective's smile could only be described as mischievous.

"Good morning, John."

"We'd better have a shower and get ready before Mycroft arrives." It took almost all of his will to move off that bed.

"Stay." Sherlock stroked down his arm, sat up to kiss his shoulder.

"You're making this tough." He looked at the time. The digital display read 8.30am. _Damn it!_ "He's going to arrive at any minute."

"And?"

"And, he'll expect us to be ready."

Sherlock flopped down, burying his head in the pillow. "I don't know why he insists on this, anyway. It's not as though it's going to make any difference."

John bent over to kiss the nape of his neck. "Come on sleeping beauty. Up."

Sherlock responded by burying himself deeper into the pillows.

_Have it your way then._

John disappeared out of the room.

###

He had just stepped out of the shower room, fully dressed, when Mycroft stepped into the apartment. As usual, he hadn't bothered knocking.

"Still lounging around in bed, is he?"

"I'm ready." Sherlock stumped down the stairs. Upon seeing his attire, Mycroft shook his head. John raised a brow.

"Making no effort with personal hygiene or attire makes no difference on the therapist's part. He won't even be looking at it."

John shot Mycroft an irritated look. Sherlock was wearing one of his woolen jumpers. Though he was taller, it still hung loose on his slim frame, virtually dwarfing him.

###

John had prepared himself for Sherlock to be utterly unbearable. At least he thought he had. Sherlock was the worst he'd ever been. He started with Mycroft's driver, as the three climbed into the back seat.

"Oh driver. To me, the solution is obvious. If you didn't have such a large drinking problem, your wife wouldn't have left you."

The man replied by pulling up the barrier between the front and back seats.

A few minutes later, he turned on Mycroft.

"I would quit the Atkins diet, if I were you, Mycoft. It's clearly having the reverse effect on you."

"Perhaps you're right, Sherlock. I've had enough of the blasted diet." Mycroft smiled at John.

John prepared himself for the onslaught to be directed at him. Instead, Sherlock looked out of the window, hand subconsciously stroking the woolen sleeve.

###

The therapist's office stood in the centre of the central business district of London. Once departing the vehicle, Sherlock used his deductive skills to pick office workers at random, exposing their innermost secrets aloud. Mycroft said nothing, simply hurried them off the busy street. Once inside the massive glass building directly opposite the car, he strode straight past the main reception desk to the elevators. John was thankful that their particular elevator was empty.

Sam Lehane's office, located on floor fifteen, spoke of immense wealth. The massive window in the front reception area showed an incredible view of the London Eye. The receptionist, herself, surely only shopped in places with a minimum thousand dollar spend. Mycroft showed them in, then bid them adieu.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Lehane will be with you in a few minutes."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up and down her obese body, then to the various photos and memorabilia she had about her desk. "It must be difficult, one child dying, and the other one turning out to be gay. I guess you won't be getting the grandchildren you've so wished for."

John was, as always, astonished by Sherlock's deductions. The woman's smile froze. "You can wait in the reception area."

Sherlock's smile did not reach his lips. He stalked over to the leather couches and slumped down.

"Sherlock!" John sat next to him. "That wasn't nice!"

Sherlock's reply was to fold his arms and scowl.

"So, why did you wear my-?"

In that instant, a short, podgy man, with a shock of red hair, stepped out of the side office.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." He held out a fat hand. Sherlock stood and reluctantly took it. "Very nice to meet you. Shall we continue this in my office?"

"If we must." Sherlock's voice was like ice.

###

Sherlock glanced around the neat room. Single photo on his desk of a pretty blonde woman and three small children. Facing at such an angle that every time he was on the computer, they would be in his line of vision. Happily married, then. Not much furniture. The desk, the lap top on top, a few drawers to the side. A small table with a teapot, carafe and two china cups, between two very comfortable looking fluffy armchairs. All in aid of making the client feel comfortable.

"Shall we sit on the arm chairs?"

"If you insist."

Sherlock followed him and sat down. It was as comfortable as it looked.

"Tea?" Sam asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Ok, let's get down to it." Sam folded his arms, stared at Sherlock and shook his head. He then unfolded them, leant forward and looked him right in the eye. "I'm not going to put up with any of your crap, ok?"

"Excuse-"

"I'm talking now. Not you. So listen. You may be brilliant, but I will not allow you to insult me. When we get out of here, you're also going to apologize to my secretary. She's a lovely woman and didn't deserve what you said to her."

"How dare-!"

"Now, I don't know why you're here. All I know is that Mycroft asked a favour and I took it. He's a great man, your brother."

Sherlock stood up.

_How dare this man speak to me this way! Doesn't he know who I am?_

"If you leave, you know the consequences."

Sherlock sat down again. Something was happening that he had not experienced before. He felt trapped, and he didn't like the feeling at all.

"I'm not telling you anything." Sherlock folded his arms.

_I'm never going to forgive Mycroft for this._

Sam looked at his watch and sighed. "It's going to be a rather boring hour, then."

###

After the hour of awkward silence, Sherlock stood up.

"Remember to apologize."

_Excuse me?_

"I will do no such thing."

"Then I'll give Mycroft a call."

Sherlock glared at him. What did he do to deserve this humiliation? He stalked out the room and mumbled an apology to the woman. John stood up.

"Are we-?"

"We're going."

"How was it?" John asked, as they walked down the corridor to the elevator. Sherlock didn't reply. If he spoke now, he'd undoubtedly say something to John that he'd regret. He decided he was furious at all of them. At that blasted therapist. Who did he think he was? At Mycroft for blackmailing him in such a way. At John for going along with it.

_Damn them! Damn them all!_

As soon as they arrived back at 221b Baker Street, he went into his bedroom and slammed the door. A few hours later, John's familiar knock sounded.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored him, lying in a ball on his bed, breathing in the familiar scent from John's jumper and feeling miserable.

He stayed in the room all day and night, somehow managing to grab a few hours sleep in the early hours of the morning.

###

He refused to talk to either John or Mycroft the entire next day.

He also refused to talk to the therapist.

Another hour of awkward silence.

The day after, the same routine. John had endeavored, unsuccessfully, to talk to him. Sherlock had simply ignored him. A part of him felt bad at the hurt he was clearly causing the doctor. He then felt good that he was feeling bad. Then bad that he was feeling good at feeling bad.

He and John took the elevator up to the usual office, went into the usual neat therapist's room, leaving John outside, sat in the usual comfortable arm chair and waited the hour out. After half an hour, he'd decided he'd had enough.

"This is ridiculous! What's the point of this? Clearly, I'm not going to talk, so why don't you just let me leave?"

"Why would I do that? You're paid up to an hour. Besides, you just did talk."

"This is utterly preposterous." He said quietly.

"Yes, your defensiveness is preposterous."  
"I am not going to talk to you… a perfect stranger, who doesn't get along with his brother, about the worst thing that's ever happened to me!" He wasn't planning to reveal what he had deduced, in the hopes it could be somehow used later. At that point, however, he didn't care.

"Rodney? I gave up on him years ago."

"Ah! Such a wonderful therapist." Sherlock spat sarcastically.

"You know how families are." Sam shrugged. "After all, Mycroft is forcing you to be here, isn't he? Come, now Sherlock. You might as well say something to me. You're clearly miserable. The tension between you and John outside is palpable. I'm safe to say he's your boyfriend?"

Sherlock felt the muscles in his abdomen clench.

"John doesn't get mentioned, ok?"

"You're not mentioning anything else, so, from my point-of-view, anything is up for grabs."

Sherlock leant forward, steepling his hands together.

_Fine! You wish to play this game…_

"Oh dear… must be truly difficult, having a pedophile for a brother."

Rodney grimaced. "Worse than you'd ever imagine. But we're here to talk about you, not me."

"But you're far more interesting."

"I doubt it. I have a very dull life. You, on the other hand, adventures, crime solving.But that's not why you're here, is it? No, Mycroft would only send you to me if it was something truly horrific. Something you're having trouble dealing with."

"I'm fine." _Will you just shut up?_

"You know what, Sherlock? Cut the bullshit. We both know that's not true. You're far from 'fine'."

"So you, like everyone else, knows my mind, do you?" He scoffed with laughter. "I doubt it."

"I don't know your mind. I can only go by your actions. You've displayed complete defensiveness towards me these entire three days. This leads me to believe that you're hiding a great pain. Someone hurt you, deeply."

Sherlock successfully hid his flinch by tensing all of his muscles.

"It's over with. The person's dead. And I'm fine."

"Again, I call complete bullshit on the third sentence. I find it interesting you say 'everyone else' knows your mind. Other people have noticed that you're not coping and are trying to reach out and help you, to have you look into-"

"Look into what? Why would I want to look into what he did to me?"

"Because it's the only way to heal. You can be defensive, you can throw yourself into work, you can block out anyone else. But, in the end, you're going to have to face up to what happened and deal with it."

"I know what happened! I was raped. There, now you know."

"And when you say the word 'rape' what does it mean to you?"

Sherlock could only stare at him, mouth agape.

"I only ask because you're talking about this, as though you're saying it by rote.'I was raped'. What does that mean?"

Sherlock could barely comprehend what he was hearing. He felt anger spike up his veins.

"What do you mean 'what does that mean'? It means another man forced his penis inside me! He gagged me so I couldn't tell him to stop. It hurt. And he still wouldn't stop. Is this what you want to hear? He kissed me and bit me. And I couldn't tell him to stop. And his words. Telling me that I was enjoying it. That I was a a slut and whore and I wanted it. And all I wanted was for it to end. But it just went on. After a while, I just wanted me to end. If he'd have shot me, it would have been…"

Sherlock stopped, put his head in his hands.  He hadn't wanted to talk about the rape. The so-called psychiatrist had forced the words from him. Mycroft had forced him to go to this sickening man.

He'd had enough of being forced. He felt as though he was being mentally violated all over again. 

Sherlock stood up. He had the choice to take some of his power back. And he chose to leave.

###

John warily stood, as the door opened. He was starting to agree with Sherlock's initial reaction to the idea of therapy. It wasn't helping. If anything, Sherlock was acting worse. The familiar figure stepped out.

"John." He looked somewhat shaky.

"You ok?" John waited until they moved into the elevator to ask.

"Fine."

John clenched his fists with frustration.

"I am an accomplished fighter, you know."

"Huh?" John was happy for Sherlock to be finally talking to him. He was, however, a little bamboozled as to the context.

"I am skilled at boxing and sword fighting."

The doors pinged open. A crowd of people waited to get in. Sherlock curled into himself, head down, shoulders curling inwards. The movement was subtle but John distinctly caught it. He risked putting an arm around Sherlock, hustling him away.

"Hungry? How about we grab something to eat."

"It was simply that he caught me a little unawares…"

_Oh no, not this again!_

"Ok…" John swiftly walked him across the busy walkway to a green park opposite.

"Otherwise I would have fought him off."

Autumn leaves piled up on the dirt pathway. One fell out of a tree and landed in Sherlock's hair.

"Terrible, having a brilliant mind. I still recall everything about what happened, right down to the bristles of his chest hair rubbing against my skin as he moved."

John reached up and plucked the leaf from his dark curls. He couldn't bear to hear Sherlock talk this way.

"What did Sam do to you? You came out of that room looking so upset."

Sherlock simply watched him, pale eyes boring into him. "You said you wanted to eat something."

###

They ended up at Angelo's. The portly man made his usual fuss over Sherlock, informing the two that they could eat for free. When he brought over a romantic big red candle for the table, John couldn't help but smile to himself. Sherlock broke precedent and ordered something.

A bottle of red wine.

"You sure?" John asked, as Angelo moved away. "It's just-"

"Just what?"

"I've never seen you drink. I suppose I thought you… didn't."

Sherlock smiled and shook his head.

###

One bottle became two. By this time, John had finished his steak and was happily joining in with Sherlock on finishing off a third.

"So he was the spy, all along?" John slurred. He was trying to keep up with Sherlock's story but could only think about how beautiful he looked with the candlelight dancing off his face, highlighting his hair. John reached out and took his hand.

"Certainly. McMurdo was Birdy Edwards." Sherlock smiled.

"That's brilliant!" John laughed, took another sip of wine then kissed Sherlock's hand. "What happened to McMurdo?"

"He was murdered a year later. It was made to look like an accident."

"That's… a terrible ending to the story."

"Is it? Oh." Sherlock took another sip of the wine.

"I've got to tell you something." John leant forward.

"You're drunk? I guessed that. I too am intoxicated." Sherlock said, though showed no signs whatsoever that he'd had a drop.

"Well… yes but I also wanted to say-"

"Anything more?" The waiter asked.

"Bill thank you." Sherlock said.

John waited until the waiter left. "I also wanted to say…" He kissed Sherlock's hand again. "I want to go home and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you….anywhere you'll let me."

Sherlock frowned. "This is the alcohol talking?"

John shook his head. "It's the fact that you look even more god damned beautiful by candlelight, if it's possible."

A half smile formed on Sherlock's face.

"How about we pay the bill, go back home and make out?"

Sherlock's half smile grew wider.

###

Their mouths ferociously clanged together as soon as they reached the downstairs apartment.

"Need to get upstairs." Sherlock laughed. They started tearing at each others' clothes, Sherlock fumbling for the key to apartment 221b. He finally located it and placed it in the slot, twisting it, as John kissed his shoulder his neck. They stumbled into the apartment, John slamming the door closed with his foot, as they continued to vie for dominance, stumbling over the couch and falling down onto it, John on top.

"You ok?" He breathed. Sherlock's breath was also exerted. He nodded. John leant down and started feasting on his neck, reaching down to undo his slacks. He could feel Sherlock gripping at his buttocks, moaning. He reached down further, feeling the hard heat within.

_Well well! What do we have here?_

Sherlock gasped, hips jolting forward.

"That's the first time that's- ah…" He closed his eyes, as John started to stroke him. "John!"

John stroked faster. He sat up so he could look at Sherlock's sweaty hair, his flushed face, his half agape, moaning mouth. He used his other hand to pull his trousers and underwear down.

_This is it. It's finally happened._

He wanted more. Needed to taste.

"John?" Sherlock said, as John moved down his body, pulling up his shirt to kiss his stomach. "What-?"

"Remember the safe word?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

John grinned and replaced his hand with his mouth, enjoying his lover's moans.

"John!" Sherlock cried out, as he increased his pace, sucking frantically. He felt hands gripping at his hair, almost painfully.

_That's it, baby. You're so beautiful. You so damned sexy._

Sherlock moaned louder.

_That's it beautiful. Come for me._

"John, I'm about to… I'm about to-Salt! Salt!"

John instantly pulled up, as Sherlock cried out, his seed spilling all over his stomach.

"Are you ok?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down at the mess on his stomach.

"I need to… take a shower."

"Oh… ok."

John watched Sherlock walk out of the room and adjusted his own clothes, ignoring his own erection. His head still felt woozy from the alcohol. Had he gone too far? Sherlock had used the safe word, which was good. Furthermore, he'd made it all about Sherlock's pleasure, ignoring his own. So why did he now feel like a rapist?

He stopped pacing when the brunet stepped back into the room, wearing his pajamas and silk dressing gown.

"Sherlock, I know I… I went too far-"

"It wasn't you." Sherlock stepped up and put a hand on his face. "Believe me… that was…You let me be in control, the entire time. It was just that I remembered that he didn't use any contraception. If he did have an STD, I could have passed it on to you."

John felt his entire body go cold. No. He refused to think about that. If that bastard had given Sherlock a death sentence…

"Chances are very strongly against it. But still, until I'm cleared, we have to be safe."

"Oh god." John leant forward and engulfed him in a hug. It was more for him, than Sherlock. "Oh god."

"It's ok, John." He could feel Sherlock's fingers in his hair. "It's ok." A hand reached down to his groin, stroking John's now laxness.

"No, gorgeous, you don't have to." John grabbed his hand to stop him.

"But don't you want me to reciprocate?"

"It's ok. Tonight was all about me pleasuring you."

Sherlock was silent a long moment. "It felt… it was amazing. Thank you, John. You know I've never…"

John smiled, looked up and kissed him soundly on the mouth. "My pleasure."

 


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Notes: I've included a reference to a haunted house, in deference to Arthur Conan Doyle's belief in spiritualism.

On the television, Basil Faulty charged his broken down car with a tree branch, whacking the metal frame repeatedly. At any other time, John would have been in fits of laughter at the sight. Now, it could only elicit a hint of a smirk. He nestled further back into the armchair and felt something dig into his upper buttock. Frowning, he reached into his back jean pocket and pulled out his wallet. Methodically, he emptied out all of the receipts and unwanted pieces of paper. One was folded up into quarters. He opened it, to reveal his neat hand writing. It consisted of a name and address.

That of Toby Toll's.

He had scrawled it down, after meeting with Toby for the first time. This was before he knew Toby to be a serial rapist, when Toby was simply an old chum.

John stared at the writing a long time. He had shot an unarmed man. And an ex-friend. At the time, he was so caught up in the emotion and shock; he had not even considered the repercussions. Then, in the days following, he had been so concerned about Sherlock; he hadn't considered his own response.

John considered himself to be a moral man. As a soldier, he had shot people. However, that was different. That was a war situation. Or so he told himself, when the gruesome images whirled round and round his head, in the most inopportune times. In battle, he was always so calm, so methodical in his approach. With Toby, he'd been out of control. John scrunched the paper up in his hands. It seemed that Toby had goaded him into shooting him. There was no way out for the man, so he chose death by soldier.

Yet, John was also a doctor. He worked to heal people, not destroy them.

Sherlock’s bedroom door opened and Stamford stepped out, followed closely by the genius.

"John." Stamford smiled, glancing around him to the television. “Ah… the dinner party episode. One of my favourites. I especially love it when he hits the car with the tree branch.”

“You just missed it.”

“Oh well…too bad."

John was not sure of the correct civility towards a friend who had just examined Sherlock's very personal injuries.

"Would you like some-?" _tea?_

"I’ll take my leave.”

"Oh ok... we'll catch up soon."

"Sure, sounds good."

John waited until Stamford put on his coat and scarf and exited, before turning to Sherlock.

“I really was thinking of putting on the kettle.”

The genius shrugged.

“So? Everything ok?” He moved to the kitchen and switched the kettle on.

 Sherlock had taken his violin out and was fiddling around with the strings.

“The stitches have dissolved. Stamford says the tears have healed well.”

“That’s good.” John’s hand, currently holding the handle of a tea cup, gripped so strongly that it shook. Sherlock’s eyes momentarily flicked down to the trembling porcelain, then locked eyes with John.

_I killed him for you. But doesn’t change the fact that he did that to you._

Sherlock balanced the violin on his shoulder and started strumming away, creating a mournful yet beautiful sound.

John had played directly into Moriarty's game. The arch-criminal had wanted him to shoot Toll, to destroy the one bit of dignity a moral man such as him had.

Toll wasn't a direct threat, he was simply bragging about his conquest of Sherlock. Certainly, he was being disgusting, belittling, degrading to the consulting detective. He had caused Sherlock to have a graphic flashback. But was it justification for John to kill him? John felt his stomach twist with revulsion.

John knew just how Toll had destroyed Sherlock, how the great PI was now a shadow of his former self, struggling to see through the day. Yet, he was beginning to realise that perhaps Mycroft's plan had been the right one; to bring Toll to justice without bloodshed and allow him a proper trial.

Yet, of late, John found himself questioning the morality of Sherlock's brother. Taking away Sherlock's choice for therapy and forcing him into it did not seem the correct way to treat a rape victim, even if his intentions were honorable.

John told himself what was done was done. He could not go back and change the past. If that were true, he would have found a way to cease Toll from hurting Sherlock, to begin with. He wondered what had caused such a monster as Toby Toll. He was aware that he came from an abusive childhood. It came to some degree of explaining his pathology but not excusing it.

"Sherlock…" John switched off the shrilling kettle. "How's the therapy going?"

Sherlock continued to strum, as he answered. “That man is a pathetic hack!”

"Mycroft has your best interests at heart, but I think he's done you a great disservice by forcing you into therapy. I want you to answer me truthfully. Do you want to go back to Dr Lehane on Monday?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked up. "Of course not!”

John paused to stir milk into his tea. “You never told me why you walked out of the session yesterday.”

The bow strummed more frantically across the strings of the delicate instrument. “I do not wish to talk about it! Don’t you force me, John. Not you.”

John felt his stomach ice. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I should have stood up to Mycroft. Should have insisted that he not force you into therapy. To do that to a rape victim. Oh god, I feel sick.”

Sherlock simply stared at him, across the room, pale blue eyes boring into him.

"You are the most moral man I have met, John. Don't beat yourself up over the actions of my blasted brother… or the death of Toll, for that matter."

John didn't bother asking how Sherlock knew what he'd just been thinking of. He felt the claws of guilt dig into his stomach. He forced a smile.

"Well, he wasn't a very nice man."

Sherlock's lips pulled up into a half smile. He gently lay the violin down, walked over and took John's head in his hands and kissed him.

"You're too easily read, John."

"What do you want, Sherlock?" He repeated.

"I want… control of my own life back. I didn't want to go to therapy-"

"I know and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Sherlock…"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "When does it end? When do I feel _normal_ again?"

"I don't know."

Sherlock stared at him a long time, eyes inscrutable, as usual. He turned and walked into the lounge, picking up the mobile from where he'd earlier flung it onto the coffee table.

"I'm tired of Mycroft trying to control my life."

John watched him flick through the mobile, and then place it on his ear. He replaced the milk in the fridge, nestling it amongst Sherlock's various gruesome experiments.

"It's me…I'm not going back therapy…. No, Mycroft, it's final…. I don't care for your threats….Goodbye, Mycroft."

He brought the mobile away from his ear and stared at it a moment.

"He won't carry them through." He sounded a little shocked. "I realize that now. Perhaps, he never intended to carry out his threats."

John placed his tea down walked over to him.

"He just wants you to be better." A new thought occurred to him. "I think maybe Mycroft, himself, isn't dealing with this too well."

"He's trying to fix me. It's what he does. He fixes things."

"He can't fix this one." John mused.

Sherlock's smile held no humour. "No, he can't."

###

Two hours later, both sat together on the main lounge chair. Sherlock flicked through his emails, using John's laptop.

"I really should just get you one of your own." John grumbled. The DVD of 'Batman Begins', playing on the TV before them, was up to the scene where Bruce Wayne met Lucius Fox, for the first time.

"This sounds interesting. An apparent haunted house, just near here."

John laughed. "Do fairies and goblins inhabit the garden?"

Sherlock picked up John's hand and started absently playing with his fingers. "I do find people's beliefs in such an absurd concept as the supernatural to be rather fascinating. Many a supremely intelligent person-"

A sharp rap on the door interrupted him.

"Ah… John, if you'd let Lestrade in."

John pointed the remote at the TV and turned it off, then walked over to the front door, opening it to the familiar figure.

"John," He said gruffly, as he stepped into the room. "Sherlock."

He appeared disgruntled. John was beginning to think of this as a normal way of being.

"They've concluded the investigation into the death of DI Toll." Sherlock didn't look up from the laptop.

"I knew you'd want to know. The… body… if you can call I that… found in the paper mill factory was examined and found to be Toll's." He paused. "The fact is, there was a major lack of evidence as to what the hell happened. The case was officially labeled inconclusive, so will remain open. Unofficially, we're going with your verdict. Toll somehow accidentally set fire to himself. As far as I'm concerned, case closed."

John recalled the astonished look on Toll's face after he was shot, Moriarty's assurance he'd 'take care' of everything.

"So, what really happened? It won't leave this room. I just need to know."

"I have no idea." Sherlock finally looked up. Lestrade turned to John, who stared steely eyed back at him. The DI seemed to decide something in his mind, and then nodded.

"And are you… is everything…?" He appeared awkward.

"I'm dealing as best I can." Sherlock said, voice cold.

Lestrade frowned. "If there's anything you need, Sherlock…You have my number."

"Thank you."

Lestrade looked to John. "That's all I came to say. I have to get back."

John waited until the DI closed the front door, before settling himself next to Sherlock. The great detective placed the laptop on the floor and sighed. "And so the saga of DI Toll ends."

"It's… troublesome that it will remain open."

"The case of who shot the taxi driver serial killer is also open. Do you know how many open cases there are? Don't be overly concerned."

John put his head in Sherlock's lap, lightly stroking his thigh. He felt Sherlock's long fingers slide through his hair, down his back.

"You have a conscience, John. I knew you'd start to question the morality of killing Toll. The life and death of others is generally of no consequence to me. But Toll, he tried to destroy me, simply because I humiliated him. He took away my power, so you took his life. Fair exchange, as I see it."

_A fair exchange?_

"You believe in the death penalty. One of the first things you told me was that you helped to get Mrs. Hudson's husband executed."

"Why should I care for the life of an insidious man who beats his wife?"

_Because it shouldn't be life for a life in a civilized society._

"Certainly, I'm aware of the injustices of the legal system but that's not my fight. And, John, the idiocy of some of the lower of the criminal classes. It's a relief that Moriarty faked his death."

John didn't want to discuss Moriarty. He lifted his head to kiss Sherlock's thigh.

"I wish to get better, so I can get back to doing what I do best. This post traumatic shock is starting to become irritating."

John couldn't help but smile to himself. Only Sherlock could describe his own PTSD as 'irritating'.

"Kiss me." Sherlock suddenly demanded. John smirked and lifted his head, hungrily tasting Sherlock's mouth. They released and he knelt before the great detective, unzipping his trousers.

"You want?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded. His pupils were now so dilated his eyes appeared dark. John braced his hands on either side of Sherlock's thighs and happily used his mouth on the most sensitive part of his body. He felt his own body react in appreciation of Sherlock's moans and whispery pronunciations of his name.

"Salt! Salt!"

John swiftly pulled up, using his hand to bring Sherlock to completion.

Sherlock collapsed back on the couch, looking utterly spent and relaxed, as John went into the bathroom to wash his hands. He came back into the room, still agonizingly hard. Sherlock noticed and grinned.

"Show me how you pleasure yourself." He whispered. John groaned and quickly unzipped his trousers. He stood before Sherlock, stroking himself as he liked. "What do you think of when you do this, John? Do you think of me?"

Sherlock's voice was enough to send erotic thrills throughout him.

"Well, do you?"

"God, yes."

"What am I doing? Am I… touching you?" Sherlock swiftly rose from the couch, hand wrapped around John's erection. "Is this good?" He leant forward and kissed John, hand replacing John's. John reached around and tenderly drew his fingers through Sherlock's hair, as the consultant stroked him.

He was about to…

He pulled back. "Wait, Sherlock, I'm about to-"

Sherlock grinned and quickened his pace. "Sherlock!" John cried out, as intense pleasure rippled through him. Sherlock frowned at the mess now on his hand, spluttered on his trousers.

"Better get changed, I guess." An awkward expression suddenly crossed his face. "Was it… ok?"

John leant in, kissed him once more. "It was wonderful."

"I think I'll take a shower."

"Sure, I'll go after you."

Sherlock started to walk to the back of the apartment, and then turned, his expression unsure.

"Maybe we could… go together."

John felt his heart start hammer.

"Would you be comfortable with that? As in truly?"

"What I think is you're my lover and I've never seen you naked. Isn't that unusual?"

"Maybe with our relationship, it's better to ask what's usual?" John grinned.

"I want to see your body, John."

John felt an odd sense of self consciousness wash over him. "It's not so… it's not the best body."

"I want to see it." Sherlock insisted. "I've never had a problem with my body."

John recalled Sherlock exposing himself at Buckingham Palace... and his hiding his own arousal, at the sight.

"But, with Toll...the way he stared at my nakedness, his lewd comments. Made me feel disgusting."

"Sherlock-"

"I like the way you look at me, John. I want you to see me. I want to see you."

John nodded. Anything Sherlock wanted, he would do anything in his power to accede to. Within reason, that was. Both walked silently into the bathroom and closed the door, then looked across at each other. John felt his heart start to thump with anxiety. Sherlock would not judge him, he knew. But the thought of his lover seeing him laid bare brought out all of his insecurities.

Sherlock started first, pulling his jumper over his head. John reluctantly followed, stripping his clothes with less grace than his boyfriend. Finally, both stood naked before each other. Sherlock shivered slightly. John overcame his own anxiety to admire the beauty of the man before him, this time, unhindered. Lean and pale, with long legs and shapely calves. He could see Sherlock likewise giving him the once over.

"My gorgeous Watson." Sherlock leant forward and kissed John's broad chest.

"You still ok with this?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "I like the way you're looking at me, right now."

"Damn, you're beautiful." John remarked. He reached up and stroked his face. "I would never hurt you. You believe that, don't you, Sherlock?"

"I know I sometimes disappoint you-"

"What you did today- standing up to Mycroft like you did, took a lot of courage. You took some of your power back and I'm proud of you for that."

Sherlock grinned. "Want to bathe together, instead?"

###

Mycroft grunted and attempted to shuffle a little in his chair. The wood rested uncomfortably against his spine. The coarse rope rubbing against his wrists would cause unsightly abrasions later but that could not be helped.

He'd climbed into his vehicle that morning to find two rather muscular smiling guys grinning back at him. Clearly, the driver had been paid a substantial figure to allow this travesty. Before he could react, one leant over and jabbed him in the knee with a syringe. Within seconds, he found himself blacking out. He'd awoken a few minutes before, in what was clearly warehouse 42 over on Doherty Road. Mycroft hummed a little to himself, waiting for the arrival of his host.

Light footsteps sounded behind him but he didn't bother to turn his head. The familiar figure came into view, dragging a chair with him, and then sitting down in it.

"You really need to be more careful when choosing staff. It took not much persuasion at all to organize this little meeting." Moriarty said.

"Clearly so." Mycroft agreed. "Could you untie me? I promise I won't try escape."

Moriarty looked at him flatly a moment, then nodded at one of his henchmen. Mycroft felt the ease of ropes and rubbed his hands together. "Much appreciated."

"Leave." Moriarty ordered his two goons. Both looked to him with quizzical expressions. "Go on, vamoose!"

Shrugging, the two lumbered towards the side door.

"Good for muscle power, but not a brain cell between them." Moriarty watched the two depart the room. He then turned back to Mycroft. "Silly, silly Mycroft. Why oh why did you have to pry into my past? I did you a favour, did I not? I vanquished the one who raped your brother."

"It was under control." Mycroft said flatly. "I didn't want your input."

"Your ungratefulness has not gone unrewarded." Moriarty's dark eyes suddenly vanquished all good humour. " _No_ bad deed goes unrewarded."

Mycroft felt a sudden, unexpected turn of his stomach.

"It was very interesting, learning about you. We are more alike than you think."

"We are nothing alike."

"Aren't we? We both use whatever means to achieve our ends. Take, for example, the assassination of a world leader…. Or the building of one. What if there was a man destined to become the next prime minister of Iraq? A man you'd personally groomed, yourself. A peaceful man, a man well loved by the population. One that actually could succeed in uniting the torn country."

Mycroft kept a placid face but underneath, his heart started to race, his stomach feeling as though he'd suddenly swallowed razor blades.

He doesn't have the power, he told himself. He's bluffing.

"Wouldn't it be terrible if something happened to him? Both professionally and personally for you?" Moriarty's eyes suddenly became colder still, snake like.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You shouldn't have pried into my past." Moriarty said blankly. In that instance, Mycroft's mobile rang.

"You'll want to take that call."

Mycroft took the phone out of his pocket. He recognized the number.

_No, no this is impossible._

"Yes?" he put the mobile to his ear.

"It's just come through now from HQ. Pedram Rahman has been assassinated in his hotel room." Anthea paused. "I'm sorry, boss."

"Ok, tell them I'll be there shortly."

He flicked his mobile shut.

_Well… this is really not good…_

"Now you know my reach." Moriarty said, quietly. He broke up into laughter. "You're even more value than Sherlock! The fun I could have with you."

"Take me on." Mycroft said. "I dare you."

"Is that a challenge?" Moriarty smirked. "Oh but you should be proud of me! The lengths I went to pull off such an elaborate revenge scenario! I am brilliant, if I don't say so myself." He regarded Mycroft at length. "But we can't forget our dear Sherlock, can we? Your poor, broken brother. Not much fun now he's all traumatized."  
"You would know." Mycroft said.

Moriarty's pupils dilated. His eyes went black.

"They should be coming at any moment. Oh won't it be fun! A little reunion."

Mycroft forced his lips up into a smile.

###

They were once more seated on the lounge, when Sherlock's mobile sounded. John was finishing his Batman Begins DVD, while Sherlock once more tapped on the laptop. John's right hand loosely played with Sherlock's hair. He smiled a little to himself. Though the bath consisted of nothing more than sitting opposite each other, knees touching as they chatted, he couldn't help but feel strangely satiated.

Sherlock rummaged around in his pocket and pulled the mobile out. His lips twisted up into a smirk.

"Well, well…He took his time."

"Who?"

Sherlock was already up and walking over to the coat rack, where his scarf and coat were hung up.

"Why, Moriarty, of course. Come on, John…"

"Why should we jump every time that psycho says we should?" John was determined not to play into his game, this time.

"Because he has Mycroft."

John blinked. "You're sure?"

"Oh, undoubtedly."

John shook his head. _When does this all end?_

###

John wasn't sure what to expect. One thing he learnt with the psycho was to not even bother attempting to come up with what he had planned. What did bamboozle him, was to walk into the warehouse to see Mycroft seated in a chair, with no bindings and, beyond that, appearing to be rather comfortable. Sherlock's favourite psycho stood before him, looking dapper as usual in his three piece suit. John regretted not having any weapon any more, particularly considering the armed men surrounding them.

"Glad you could come, Sherlock. Always nice to have these little reunions."

"What do you want this time, Moriarty?" Sherlock stepped closer, eyes momentarily glancing at the armed men.

"Jim, please, Sherlock. As much as I love seeing your pretty face, it wasn't me that caused our get together, this time. It was your interfering brother. He couldn't just let things go." Moriarty shook his head. "I just figured it would be fun to have you, my pretty pretty nemesis, be involved in the action."

Sherlock regarded him a moment. "I already knew. Even if Mycroft hadn't given me a hint, it wouldn't have taken much to work out the full story. It was… a tragedy. It shouldn't have happened."

Moriarty laughed. "You think because that pathetic DI buggered you over a lab bench, that you know anything about my suffering?"

"What do you want, Moriarty?" Jim said evenly, carefully keeping his fury at bay.

"All three of you must learn to keep secrets. I've decided to provide special… motivation."

John looked worriedly at Sherlock, then Mycroft. He didn't like the sound of that. Both brothers were blank faced, as usual.

"Decide, Sherlock." Mycroft signaled to the armed men surrounding them. John started as red dots appeared on his chest. He looked to Mycroft. He had similar red dots appearing on his torso. "Which one is worth more to you? Your brother or your lover?" He giggle-snorted. "Decide which one will be spared."

"I've told you of what will happen, should I die." Mycroft did not sound phased. Moriarty didn't even glance at him.

"Why not shoot both of them, if that's your wish?" Sherlock said.

"Because making you choose is far more fun!" Moriarty stepped close to Sherlock. John gritted his teeth as the arch villain reached up and lightly ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The detective visibly tensed. "Come, Sherlock. It's just little ol' me. I won't hurt you. We belong together, you and I. Such beautiful destruction we could make together." He leant forward and appeared to smell Sherlock's neck. "You smell wonderful. Tell you what, agree to one night with me and I'll spare them both. I'll _worship_ you. Make you forget all about Toby Toll. As well as John Watson."

Sherlock grabbed Moriarty's hand and flung it away from him. "Don't touch me!" He snarled.

"Alright alright!" Moriarty stepped back, hands up in the air. "I just figured you could do with a bit of… healing."

John clenched his fists.

_Damn! He's one twisted bastard!_

"Ok, back to the main business of the day. Choose!"

It's a trap, John thought, desperately trying to signal Sherlock with his eyes. The one that you tell him to spare is the one he'll shoot!

For a moment, Sherlock's eyes fixed on him. At that moment, John knew that Sherlock already knew this. As well as his decision.

"Spare Mycroft." Sherlock said.

As John predicted, a volley of shots sounded, hitting the older Holmes brother in the abdomen and knocking him off the chair.

 


	17. Chapter 17

A volley of shots rang out, hitting the older Holmes brother in the abdomen and knocking him off the chair. He lay, slumped and unmoving, on the grimy warehouse floor.

Moriarty's face betrayed a cold, reptilian expression. He grasped Sherlock's arm, roughly.

"Delve into my past anymore and it will be John. And it won't be quick." He pushed Sherlock away roughly. "I bid you both adieu."

He signaled to his henchmen and walked towards the door, whistling a merry tune, as Sherlock rushed over to his fallen brother.

John looked down to verify his now red dot free body, then up to catch Moriarty and his men departing the warehouse, door slamming shut behind them.

"Sherlock, how do we know he won't just come back in again, like he did the last time?"

Sherlock by now had rolled his brother over onto his back and was clearly too fretful to answer.

"You're a doctor! Help me!" The great mind seemed at odds as to how to proceed. He took his mobile out of his coat pocket, for a moment staring at it as though it was a foreign object. "I'll I need to… I'll ring for an ambulance."

By this time, John was by his side, his fingers to Mycroft's neck and feeling for the carotid pulse. He was rewarded with a strong, constant thump.

"Come on, come on-" Sherlock spat, pacing, his mobile to his ear.

"He's alive."

Sherlock flicked the mobile shut, face frozen in what appeared to be astonishment.

John loosened Mycroft's tie and started to undo his jacket, intending to look at his injuries. The elder Holmes brother moaned.

"That was incredibly unpleasant."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock was kneeling at his side, once more. John opened his jacket, expecting to find bloodied bullet holes piercing through the fabric of his shirt.

"What the hell?"

John ripped open his white shirt fully to reveal a Kevlar vest.

"I don't believe this…a bloody bullet proof vest?" John shook his head.

"My ribs..." Mycroft groaned.

"His ribs." Sherlock tore at the vest. "John, you need to-"

"It's ok, Sherlock!" John lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Allow me."

He very carefully ripped the remainder of the shirt off. "I'd keep ringing the ambulance."

"No ambulance." Mycroft went to sit up and groaned. "I'm fine."

John gently pushed him back, carefully removing the vest, as Sherlock spoke.

"Thank the non deity of the universe that you're ok." Sherlock said.

"It is gratifying to know that my own brother would ultimately choose his new boyfriend's life over mine." Mycroft moaned.

"You did force me into therapy." Sherlock sounded almost giddy with relief.

John ran his hands over Mycroft's chest and stomach. "You've got extensive bruising, but no fractures. How did you… how did you know?"

"I got the heads up a few days ago that Moriarty was gunning for me. The vest was just a precaution."

"And what if he shot you in the head?"

"He wasn't aiming to kill me. I have too much over him. He just wanted to seriously scare me. Or, that's what I hoped." He moved to sit up, once more. This time, John helped him up.

"And when he finds out you're alive?"

Mycroft's smile was eerily like Sherlock's, when he was 'on the game'. "Now he knows he has a second Holmes brother to play with. And I can be way more fun than Sherlock."

"I doubt it." Sherlock scowled.

"We should leave." Mycroft reached for the vest and started to put it back on. "I need to get back to HQ. Things will be…" He shook his head. "We should leave."'

"Are you sure you're alright?" Sherlock asked.

"My dearest Sherlock, I'm fine. Your concern almost makes up for the fact you had me shot to begin with." He started to do the buttons up on his torn white shirt, then with a very Sherlock like scowl to John, tore it off and put the jacket over the vest instead. "I'll have to go home and put on a new shirt, first."

'I had no choice, Mycroft." Sherlock said, as Mycroft adjusted his tie.

"You had a choice. You chose John, that's all."

"I told you-!" Sherlock now sounded rather exasperated.

"Never fear." Mycroft frowned and picked up his mobile, where it had landed. "I'll be over in the next few days to annoy you."

"I would recommend going to the hospital. Just to get checked out." John said.

"It's more important for me to get back to work, asap." Mycroft frowned at his phone. "They're expecting me."

###

Sherlock was silent, on the taxi ride home. He was rather interested to note Mycroft's hurt that he didn't choose him. Although Mycroft shrugged it off, he knew his brother. He supposed that was also part of Moriarty's plan. No matter who he chose, the other would feel devastated that they were now condemned to death. He loved his brother, certainly. And, arguably, Mycroft had more of a chance of survival than John. But ultimately, he could not bear anything happening to _his_ Watson.

Then there was the third option that Moriarty gave. A night with him. Was the master criminal that deluded that he would think that Sherlock would accede to that? Surely, Moriarty was aware, as a rape victim himself, that Sherlock offering himself up to save Mycroft and John, would mean essentially him allowing the arch-criminal to rape him? Sherlock shivered, as the taxi pulled up to 221b Baker Street. Or maybe it was yet another of Moriarty's absurd experiments. He held out the money wordlessly to the taxi driver and departed the cab, John close behind him.

"It would be nice to have just one day that's just a normal day. We go to the park, or something." John said, opening the door to go inside.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson gingerly stepped up to them. "I made you and John some chocolate cake. Thought you might-"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. We'll be upstairs."

"Ok, I'll-"

Sherlock ignored her and continued to walk upstairs.

"She doesn't know." John said, once Mrs. Hudson had left the apartment, after much fussing over Sherlock.

"I intend to keep it that way." Sherlock frowned at the chocolate cake then handed John a slice. He watched the doctor bite into it.

"Thank you for choosing me." John said, after swallowing the mouthful.

"I chose Mycroft."

"All three of us know that whoever you chose to live would be the one Moriarty shot. Damn, that guys a nutter. Thank god Mycroft is ok." John said.

Sherlock didn't want to ponder about otherwise.

"How are you, Sherlock?"

"As well as can be expected." He closed his eyes. "Why don't we have a bath?"

###

The shared bath wasn't meant to be in any way sexual. Sherlock had merely wanted to ease the tension after a long day. As a result, the bath _wasn't_ in anyway sexual. They had bathed, had both redressed, this time into their pajamas.

And ended up on the bed, John's head kissing down his stomach, undoing the ties to his pajama bottoms. He had once asked John if he felt fine with this. After all, he constantly pleasured Sherlock in this way and never had any reciprocation. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't want to reciprocate… it was just that he found he was unable. The thought of that kind of intimacy made his stomach clench with anxiety. He could handle watching John masturbate, or even going so far as to masturbate John. But anything more than that was simply too much for his fractured psyche to bear.

He moaned as John started to pleasure him. John had answered that he was more than ok with it. He loved that he could bring Sherlock such pleasure.

"John!" He groaned, tugging at the doctor's short strands of hair. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel. It wasn't long before he cried out his climax, John, as usual, bringing him to completion with his hands. He lay, sated, feeling John kiss up his stomach and chest. The doctor didn't ever expect reciprocation, but Sherlock felt it was only fair. He only wished he could enjoy pleasuring the doctor with his hands, as John clearly enjoyed pleasuring him. Oftentimes, such as now, feeling the hard flesh in his hands, hearing John groan and whimper, he wanted it to be finished so he could sleep. Usually, thankfully, it didn't take long. Afterward was always the part he liked best of all, the soft, tender kisses, John's arms around his waist, touching his hair, feather light strokes to his face.

"What a day…" John sighed.

"Mmm…"

"Ended up ok, though."

"Mm…"

He felt himself drifting… drifting…

"You're so warm." More weight and warmth on his back as John snuggled closer. "Like a giant hot water bottle."

"Mm… hm…"

Drifting… _drifting_ … _John's deodorant filling his nostrils…drifting… hand tight, protective around his waist…drifting-_

_A hand clasped over his mouth. A familiar stench filled his nose; cheap aftershave, sweat and something else… something distinctly him._

_He moaned, struggled to free himself from the weight pinning him face down to the bed, only his hands couldn't move, only he could feel bare flesh against his own. Where were his clothes?_

_No, no this wasn't possible. Where was John?_

_"You'll always be mine, Sherlock!" That hateful voice. He couldn't move, couldn't get away. It was going to happen again and he was helpless to stop it._

_"Mine!"_

_Sherlock cried out in anguish and horror as he was forcefully breached._

_"Mine! Mine! Mine!" The man punctuated each word with the vicious, stabbing movement. Sherlock was screaming, screaming-_

"Sherlock, it's ok! It's ok!"

Sherlock gasped, shooting up in the bed. It took a moment to familiarize himself with his surroundings. Nightmare. Just a nightmare. He was safe. John was here with him and he was safe. Only, his heart still raced, only he could still feel the man's breath on his, his weight, pinning him down. He rolled and pulled John to him, forcing their bodies together.

"I'm here." John's hands in his hair, down his trembling back. "I'm here."

"It's fine, John. It was just a nightmare. It happens."

John didn't reply, simply continued to stroke his hair, to reassure him.

###

John barely slept the rest of the night. His thoughts circled round in his head. He felt utter powerless to help Sherlock. No matter what he said or did, it would not cease the great detective's anguish. He could do nothing to stop the nightmares. It wasn't until the the sun peeked its head over the horizon, that he managed to garner a few hours sleep. When he awoke, Sherlock was already up. No surprise there. He jumped in the shower, toweled himself off and dressed in his usual fuzzy jumper and jeans.

Sherlock sat at the bottom of the stairs, laughing at morning television.

"This is ridiculous, John! This woman claims to have been kidnapped by aliens."

John grinned and bent over to kiss his forehead.

He wasn't going to mention the nightmare. Of course, he wasn't.

As usual, there was nothing edible in the kitchen cupboards or fridge.

"I'm going around the corner to pick up some groceries. You want anything?"

Sherlock shook his head.

John picked up his keys and went outside.

###

He returned ten minutes later to find Sherlock seated at the kitchen table, pensive look on his face, John's laptop in front of him.

"Sebastian Wilkes wants my help."

"Who?"

"Sebastian Wilkes, from the bank."

_Oh, him._

Apparently, someone's been embezzling money. Dull."

"Hm…" John put the plastic bag on the kitchen counter and took out the bread, opening the packaging and putting two slices in the toaster. "Want some toast?"

"Last time I saw Sebastian, I said you were a friend and you changed it to a colleague."

"Huh?"

"You denied being a friend of mine."

"Sherlock that was…" He tried to think back. "I was annoyed at you, that day." He took out the instant coffee and flicked on the kettle.

"Ah so you're not a friend when you're annoyed at me."

"No… we didn't know each other that well then…"

_Why is he doing this now?_

"I understand that I can be… rather tiresome, at times…"

"Well, yes but that's you." John yawned.

"I see." Sherlock said, his tone brittle.

"You're misunderstanding me." The kettle rose to a high pitch, as the toast popped. John switched off the kettle and attended to the toast first. "Yes, you can be tiresome, you can be demanding, you can make me feel like I'm going crazy. But…" He put down the knife he was using to butter the toast and walked over to pull out the chair next to Sherlock's. "That's the way you are, at times, and that's fine." He took Sherlock's hand. "Look, Sherlock, I'm… I'm crazy about you. All of you. Even the not so wonderful bits." He lifted the hand to his lips and kissed the wrist. "Do you… want to talk about the nightmare?"

"Just an aspect of PTSD I'm still dealing with."

"Was it Toll?" John ventured.

Sherlock didn't reply, but averted his eyes.

"Even now, I occasionally have nightmares about Afghanistan."

"I know."

John kissed his hand again, sensing that Sherlock was not interested in partaking in any more of that particular conversation. "I went passed a travel agent, on the way back from the corner store. Got me thinking-"

"You want to leave London." A slight panic showed in the pale blue eyes.

"I wonder if it would be good for _both of us_ to get out of London, for a few weeks. So much has happened. I think both of us just needs a break."

"As in a proverbial holiday?"

John couldn't help but smile. "I've got a bit of money saved up. Well, for the proverbial rainy day. But the proverbial holiday sounds like a good idea. Neither of us is working at the moment, so it's not like we have any particular commitments."

"Do you have anywhere in mind?" Sherlock looked genuinely curious.

"Hm…" John considered a moment. _Somewhere hot but cheap._ "Have you ever been to Thailand?"

"Yes. I helped put the Butcher of Bangkok on death row. He was the notorious serial killer-"

"Ok, how about Phuket?"

"No, I can't say I've been."

John had the sudden image of Sherlock sitting on a tropical beach, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sipping a pina colada. He couldn't help but grin.

Sherlock steepled his hands together on the table. "Can I take the laptop?"

###

They arrived at the small island too late to do any proper sightseeing the first night. Sherlock had been loquacious as ever on the airplane over to Thailand, unknowingly convincing the woman sitting opposite him across the aisle that he was clairvoyant. When he got up to use the restrooms, the woman had leant across to John and said "I think he's the real thing."

This, in turn, led to other passengers around them wanting to hear more of Sherlock's deductions. Sherlock seemed rather pleased to show off his vast intellect. John was more than content to read and leave him to it.

Upon arriving at Bangkok airport, they switched to a smaller plane and transferred to Phuket. By the time they reached their booked beachfront villa, John felt utterly exhausted. He crashed on the bed without bothering to change or even unpack his suitcase.

He awoke the next morning to find the room empty. Frowning to himself, he quickly changed into a t-shirt and shorts and wandered down the short path to the beach. He quickly spied the familiar dark haired figure.

Sherlock sat cross legged on the white sand, his palms facing upwards on his knees. John suddenly realized that this was the first time he'd seen him in shorts. He complimented them with a short sleeved white shirt. John sat down next to him. Sherlock opened his eyes. He favoured John with perhaps the most genuine smile he had ever seen on the genius' face. John found himself, as ever, stunned by his beauty.

"This was, indeed, one of your more clever ideas. I had managed to successfully meditate and clear my mind of all thoughts. No small feat, considering the wealth of my knowledge and intellect."

"Oh, I'm sorry if I disturbed you."

"No, no. It's fine. I used to meditate often. Helped to clear things. But then I became too busy, or so I told myself. But, I really should get back into practice."

John looked out to the beach, allowing the sereness of his surroundings to seep into his body.

"I love you, John." Sherlock said.

John turned to look at him. The consultant was looking out to the beach. The doctor felt so overcome that he found it difficult to voice a response to the simple, honest declaration.

_I love you too is usually a good reply._

"I'm glad to be here." Sherlock continued.

###

Time became both an infinity and finite. He could have been sitting on the beach, for minutes, hours, or even days. It took a lot of intense concentration to be in the zone but once he was there, the benefits were enormous. He found it easier to control his incredible mind, to delete impertinent items. He opened his eyes, experiencing a calmness he hadn't known in a long time. John sat next to him, book in hand. Dear, sweet, puppy like John. Ever faithful, ever caring. The good doctor had attempted to meditate, but soon started to fidget. Within minutes, he was excusing himself to go back to the cabin to grab a book.

He looked like he belonged here, in the tropical heat, Sherlock mused. John's hair was already starting to bleach, his skin already starting to tan. Sherlock, by contrast, never tanned. He simply went very red, and then started to peel. John's Hawaiian shirt already looked as though he'd lived in it for years.

"Why the staring? Is it because I'm so devilishly handsome?" John joked, not looking up from the book.

Sherlock reached over and lowered with his hands, leaning across to kiss John soundly on the mouth.

"Let's go back to the cabin." He said, coyly.

###

John had to admit, the holiday was a bloody good idea of his. They were already five days into the two weeks. Sherlock seemed a lot calmer, was out meditating every day. He'd not had a nightmare or flashback in all of this time.

He also seemed more… rambunctious than usual. John certainly wasn't complaining about that. Indeed, there was nothing he enjoyed more than making out with his beloved.

Beloved, sexy, gorgeous… he thought, looking across to where Sherlock sat, untouched breakfast food before him.

He came back to the table from the breakfast buffet, plate laden with fruit. Sherlock swilled his coffee with a spoon. It was only when he sat down directly opposite that he caught the frown on Sherlock's face. Sudden, unexpected irritation passed over him.

_We're in a tropical paradise! What's wrong now?_

John instantly felt shamed at his thoughts. He reminded himself of the reason why they were there. Sherlock's expression suddenly went icy.

"I'm sorry that my angst is getting in the way of your fun."

John felt the knot in his stomach tighten.

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to. I read it in your face. You were annoyed at me for not enjoying myself, then annoyed at yourself for feeling that way."

"Sherlock…I'm sorry, ok? I just… I thought you were having a good time. Just a few minutes ago, we were laughing."

"I _have_ been having a good time."

"Then, what changed?"

Sherlock rose a hand and pointed at an obese man seated a few tables away, leant forward and spoke very quietly. "When you went to the buffet table, he started laughing. He sounded exactly like… like Toll, when he was... Incongruous, to find my humiliation and suffering so funny. Where's the humour in raping another person?"

John felt his heart break a little, at Sherlock's feeble attempt of analyzing the mind of such a man. He recalled that horrid night; Sherlock coming into the door, his movements stiff, eyes vacant. John had certainly seen sexual assault victims before. But he never thought he'd have to comprehend the horror of it happening to the one he loved the most.

"You don't understand, John. The pain was… it was like being repeatedly stabbed. But, beyond that...I told myself I wouldn't cry. And he laughed. The more he could see how much he was hurting me, the more he laughed." Sherlock's voice didn't tremble, his expression remained neutral. John, however, could barely hold in his emotions at these words. "Oh John." Sherlock caught John's anguished expression.

"Big tough soldier, huh?" John said, as tears spilled down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." He wiped at his eyes. "To hear what he put you through… I can't even begin to imagine."

"Then why are _you_ crying?"

John was a little taken aback. "Because it hurts _me_ to hear what he did to you. And I can't do anything. I just feel so damned helpless."

Sherlock regarded him a long moment. "I'm assuming you've noticed by now that emotions aren't exactly something that I… deal with very well, at the best of times. I finally accept that this may be beyond me." He momentarily closed his eyes. "When we get back to London, I will see a therapist. But one of my choosing, this time."

John felt an absurd relief wash over him. "Ok, whatever you think is best."

"There's someone particular I have in mind. I'll have to talk to Lestrade."

"Lestrade? Why…?"

Sherlock grinned. "You know, you look positively adorable in that Hawaiian shirt, John."

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Reference to 'The Lion's Mane', as well as canon Sherlock's later years as a beekeeper. Oh and Weston Manor is a real hotel that's supposedly haunted.

Lestrade never envisioned actually yearning for Sherlock Holmes' help on a case. He found the consulting detective to be exceedingly cold and arrogant, at the best of times. However, Lestrade was disgruntled to admit, he was also invaluable. The police had to painstakingly gather enough evidence together for a case to go to trial. Sherlock simply cut straight through all of this and usually found enough evidence within minutes to convict the guilty person.

The latest case was indeed, strange. Of course, this made it perfectly fitting for the young consultant. The bodies of two young men had been found, within days of each other, lying on a cove off Brighton beach. Both had massive welts marring their backs. He was certain Sherlock would solve it within days, rather than the weeks it was taking his very proficient London police team, who were working in conjunction with the police in Brighton. It had also taken them out of London for a few days, which meant they got a break from the relentless media.

He stepped out of his office to refill his coffee mug with the disgusting sludge that passed for coffee, when lo-and-behold, Sherlock walked into the main office, his ever faithful John Watson trailing. Sherlock spotted Lestrade and made a beeline straight for him. Sally noticed and made a move to cut him off, but then seemed to decide against it and stepped back to her desk.

"Sherlock Holmes. Long time, no see." Lestrade said, ushering him and John into the office. He noted the tan on John's face, and recalled the rumour that he and Sherlock had been out of the country. "What can I do for you?"

"I want the name and number of you therapist." Sherlock said, in his usual blunt fashion.

Lestrade took a sip of his coffee and made a face."How do you know I have a therapist?"

"With your clear inability to cope after your divorce, followed by a gradual turn around within the next year, of course you have a therapist. Clearly, whoever it was, was very good at their job."

Lestrade sighed, rubbing his forehead. He decided there was no point in denying it.

"Yes, she was very good." He walked to his desk and pulled out a card, wordlessly handing it to Sherlock, who quickly pocketed it.

"Is it the Brighton Beach case?" Sherlock asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Clearly, you're struggling. I've been following it, myself. You're all focusing on the wrong thing. It has nothing to do with the fact that one victim was having an affair with the other's wife. That was purely coincidence. Lions Mane is a type of jellyfish. Look it up. Both victims had weak hearts. That's what killed both of them."

He then turned and departed the office without another word, leaving Lestrade to stare after him and John in astonishment. He sat down at his desk and clicked into the internet, typing 'lion's mane' in Google.

###

By contrast to Sam Lehane, the therapist's office was situated in a more derelict part of London, opposite a set of commission flats. It was located on the second floor and there was no elevator. Sherlock couldn't be more pleased. Mycroft would positively hate this set up. The interior waiting room was stylishly furnished, with a comfortable looking couch and oak coffee table piled with magazines before a brick fireplace. A roaring fire within added both warmth and a sense of comfort. There appeared to be no secretary.

John sat down on the lounge chair and shrugged. Sherlock walked over to the door, opposite the one leading in, and knocked. He wasn't sure what to expect. At Sherlock's insistence, John had been the one to call her, organizing the appointment time and billing process, something Sherlock had no care about.

It was opened by a frail, familiar looking woman in her early sixties.

"Sherlock Holmes? And this must be the John Watson I spoke to on the phone?"

John, by now standing, walked over to shake her hand.

"Ok, how do you want to do this?" She turned to Sherlock. "Do you want John to be in the room with you?"

Sherlock was a little surprised by the question. "You want John to be part of the therapy session?"

"I'm just here to lend moral support." John cut in. "I'm more than happy to wait in here. The fire looks pretty cozy."

"Certainly." She smiled. "Whatever is most comfortable for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock certainly didn't want John in the same room as he presumably talked about his fractured mindset, of late. He wasn't entirely comfortable about this whole therapy idea to begin with, but he figured he'd at least try. Anything had to be better than the constant nightmares and emotional outbursts.

"Ok, well come on in."

It was a very similar room to Lehane's. A telephone and laptop sat on a very neat desk. A bookcase overflowed with various psychology books. Two armchairs sat facing each other, opposite another open fire.

"Well, shall we sit down?"

Sherlock nodded, studying her and the surroundings intently, as both sat.

"Interesting set up." Sherlock gestured to the fire.

The woman smiled.

"My name is Emma Coogan. You're welcome to call me Emma. Now, are you aware of patient-doctor privilege?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Then I'll reiterate to you that nothing you say will leave this room. Another thing, you can say whatever you want to me. I don't care. I don't take it personally. Call me a fruity old bat, if you like. I've been called some… pretty interesting things. What I'm saying is, feel free to say and do whatever you want, short of violence, understand?"

Sherlock nodded once more, smiled a little. He was starting to like this Emma.

"So, have you seen a therapist before?"

Sherlock inwardly shuddered. "Unfortunately, yes."

She did not look surprised by his answer. Warmth emanated from her dark brown eyes.

"My brother Mycroft insisted that I go. The therapist was…" He shook his head. "I can only assume Mycroft told him that I would be defensive. Which I was. The therapist started by telling me he 'wouldn't put up with any of my crap'."

Emma's brows creased a little in apparent consternation. Sherlock felt both incensed and safe enough to continue.

"I refused to talk to him. For three days, we spent the entire hour in silence. Finally, I couldn't bare it any longer. I have a genius intellect and can deduce things about people, simply by observing. I told him what I'd deducted about him, and his secretary. He wasn't very happy about it."

"You say deduce…?"

His lips quirked up. "Looking at you and this room, I deduce that you're a widow. It was a long, lingering illness. And that your daughter committed suicide at a relatively young age and that's why you moved into this profession."

"Everything you've said is correct." She smiled and shook her head. Sherlock suddenly realized what was so familiar about her. She reminded him of Mrs. Hudson. Something in her mannerisms and gentle nature.

_She's going to ask me how I knew all of these things._

He was forced to deliberately push down his unease, however, when Emma put the focus back on him.

"You say the other therapist wasn't happy about your deductions?"

"He forced me to tell him why I was there. I told him that…" He closed his eyes. ( _It's going to come out at some point, may as well say it) "_ That I had been raped. And he told me I said it like I was still in denial about it."

He his body tensed, anticipating her next line of questioning.

_She's going to ask me about the rape….I don't know if I can…_

He released his breath, however, as she kept on topic.

"Hm… that doesn't sound like a productive experience. You say Mycroft insisted you go to this man?"

"I presume it's a friend of his. Mycroft is the kind of person who wants results fast. He thought this man would be the one to bring me to normal."

"What's normal?" Emma smiled. "Sherlock… your defensiveness towards this therapist sounds completely reasonable to me. You say you were forced to go there to begin with, then forced to say why you were there, correct?"

"Yes… yes that's it! I eventually decided I'd had enough. I rang up Mycroft and said I wasn't coming back."

"How did Mycroft respond?"

"He seemed ok with it, actually. My brother and I have a complicated relationship but he does care for me… deep down."

"Can I ask why you decided to go back to therapy?"

Sherlock looked down to where his fingers interlocked.

"Because I'm tired of…I want to feel normal again."

"How are you not 'feeling normal?'"

Sherlock found it hard to put into words. "I… haven't been coping very well."

"Ok… do you want to maybe give me an example of how you haven't been coping?" She said in a voice that was calm, nonjudgmental.

Sherlock bit his lip. "I recently went on holiday with John. Everything was going well. Then I heard this other man laugh, at breakfast…." He didn't want to continue, couldn't bear to describe the terror, the pain of the assault reoccurring… in broad daylight, in a place far away from where the true assault took place.

"What did you do, when you heard this man laugh?"

"Nothing I… I didn't do anything. I felt…paralyzed." His shudder illustrated the words.

Emma nodded. Sherlock suddenly realized that she seemed aware of what he was struggling to say.

"I'm sorry. I'm not very good at verbalizing my emotions."

"Emotions are complicated things. Sometimes we may feel one emotion when in reality, we are actually feeling another. And other times, when pain becomes too great, the body shuts itself off, as a defense mechanism. In my experience, it's very common for people to cut off from their emotions, for various reasons."

Sherlock recalled John telling him that he wasn't sociopathic, simply too reliant on his intellect.

"So you say things were going fine, and then something happened to…" She paused, seeming to consider her words. "To remind you of your assault."

Sherlock nodded. "That seems the constant, of late. I'll think I'm fine then something will happen to remind me… and suddenly I'm back there. Sometimes, I actually _smell_ him… I know, intellectually that I'm suffering from PTSD but knowing the affliction doesn't help at all."

"Tell me, Sherlock, have you been having nightmares?"

"I know, another symptom of PTSD. It's always the same. He's hurting me and I can't get away… I often wake up screaming. Sometimes it takes a while to remember that I'm home and I'm safe."

"Tell me about _home_. What does it mean to you?"

He was a little taken aback by the question. "Home? Ah… home's talking to my skull and… chemical and forensic experiments and watching television with John…" He wasn't sure what she wanted him to say.

"From the way I hear it, _home_ is feeling comfortable enough to do what makes you happy."

"What makes me happy is doing my work. But I can't go back yet. Not in the capacity I was before. I'm still not well." He said morosely.

"Can I ask what your job is?"

"I work as a consulting detective. The police contract me out for jobs that are beyond their capabilities which, considering the London police, means I make quite a bit of money."

She smiled. "What is it about _not being well_ that's stopping you from going back to work?"

"I thought we just went over this? The flashbacks, the nightmares, the constant fear that something's going to bring on a flashback or nightmare. My head's not together. I can barely think straight. I'll be fine one minute and then smashing plates the next."

"From what you're telling me, you're an incredibly smart, capable young man. You own a successful business-"

"I told you. I have a _genius_ intellect." He said, feeling irritable.

"What I'm getting is that your under a lot of pressure to be better, from your brother, and, more importantly, from yourself. You can intellectually rationalize what happened to you. Your emotional well-being is another matter, however. Would you say this is a fair comment?"

Sherlock frowned. "It is not right that this… person, if he can be called that, should take over my entire life. He was so _beneath_ me and to even contemplate that he could…I was intellectually superior. I bested him. And he took vengeance in the crudest way he could."

"No, it's not right. It's not fair." She took a deep breath. "And it's healthy that you want to move past it and get on with your life. But I also want to say, from everything you've told me so far, that what you call your _not coping_ is a completely normal reaction to the trauma you've suffered. I also think that Mycroft may have been trying to help when he forced you into therapy, but it had the opposite effect. What you need right now is to make decisions on your own. To not feel stifled."

Sherlock felt an odd relief wash over him. He had honestly thought he'd be soon carted off to the nearest psychiatric hospital. But here was an _expert_ telling him that his reactions were normal.

"Can we talk about John?"

He felt something freeze within him. "What about John?"

"You've mentioned him twice already in this session. Once when talking about home, and another in talking about going on holiday together. I think it's safe to say that you two are close?"

"We're close." Sherlock didn't want to give too much away.

"In this time that you say you've been _not coping_ , how has John reacted?"

"John's been…" He recalled that morning. John looked goofy in an absurd daffy duck jumper. John walking up to him at the dining room table and putting his arms around him, kissing his ear, asking him if he was ok, telling him that he loved him. "John's been wonderful. I know I must drive him crazy, at times. But he keeps coming back. He jokes that he's a glutton for punishment."

"Sounds like he cares for you very much."

Sherlock's smile was bitter sweet, recalling the years before John Watson, the yearning to cease a loneliness he didn't even realize he was feeling.

"Yes, he does."

###

Sherlock told John to go upstairs. He wanted to visit Mrs. Hudson. She was, as ever, thrilled to see him. After inviting him in, she busied herself with making tea and bringing a cake out of the oven, asking him about John and his cases and informing him of the local gossip, as she cut it into slices. He wondered if she always had cakes on the go, in case of an impromptu visit.

After settling in her usual chair, by the window opposite him, she took her own tea cup and took a sip, beaming smile suddenly turned upside down.

"Sherlock…I wish you would tell me…"

"Tell you what?"

"It's worse, the not knowing."

Sherlock felt his stomach freeze. _No, no not Mrs. Hudson._

The attack, itself, took approximately twelve minutes.

With every new person he told, he was forced to relive it, once more. In dreams, those twelve minutes played out yet again. The flashbacks guaranteed more time feeling the agonized humiliation.

The attack had taken approximately twelve minutes but it had now reoccurred for hours, perhaps even days.

_Please don't ask me._

He looked down to his mug of coffee, noting, with some alarm, that his hand shook a little.

"When I first met Bob, I felt blessed. He was so charming. Seemed the perfect gentleman. I couldn't figure what a man like him would want in _me_."

Sherlock looked up. The last Mrs. Hudson spoke of her husband was the day she was due in court, on the witness stand to his murder trial.

"It was subtle, to begin with. I thought him feeling jealous of other men was proof that he really cared. He wanted to control all of the finances. But then, that was nothing out of the ordinary, those days. Then he started to control who I saw, where I went, what I did. After a while, I was completely dependent on him. By the time the actual physical abuse started, I was so dependent on him; I just couldn't even consider getting out of it. I loved him, so much. He would be abusive but then he'd be so sorry after. For weeks, he'd be the sweet, gentle man I married. Then it would start again. I went to hospital, a few times. No one asked any questions, those days. They just patched me up and sent me home again."

Sherlock suspected that Mrs. Hudson had been planning this revelation for a while.

"Toothpaste." She smiled. "Toothpaste left at the crime scene. That was what put him in the chair. Thanks to you. To be honest, when I first met you, I thought you must be crazy."

"A lot of people think that."

"Because of you, he was convicted. I got my life back. Nothing I can do for you will ever repay that."

"It's good _someone's_ giving me the acclaim I deserve." Sherlock muttered.

"For years, I felt so ashamed of what happened to me. I never told my family. As far as they knew, we had a loving marriage."

Sherlock thought about what would happen if Mycroft didn't know about his attack. All told, things possibly could have turned out better.

"Mrs. Hudson…"

'You know I love you, Sherlock. Like a son. Let me in." She said, softly.

_You think just because you told me all about your abusive dead husband that I'll reciprocate about my own attack?_

"I have to leave. I'm sorry." He stood up.

"Ok… that's ok." She was obviously trying to hide her hurt with a smile. "You can come back anytime. We'll have another chat. It was nice."

Sherlock started to walk to the door. He stopped, found himself turning, looking directly back at her.

"A few months back… there was this detective inspector…" _The words can't hurt you._ "I was raped."

"Oh Sherlock!" Her hand covered her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks.

_John also cried, when I told him._

"Oh my dear child." She was suddenly out of the chair and across the room. "I thought it might be…" Mrs. Hudson placed her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

_Why do I feel like I need to console her?_

Sherlock tenderly stroked her back. Mrs. Hudson pulled back, sudden alarm in her eyes. "Was it DI Lestrade, or that other one... Anderson?"

Sherlock found himself inexplicably laughing. _Lestrade or Anderson a rapist?_ "No, no not them. It was a new guy-"

"Toby Toll." Mrs. Hudson was ever shrewd. "I saw him, in the news. And I remembered meeting him… just once. I let him into the house. Oh Sherlock! I'm so sorry. I didn't even guess… he seemed so nice."

"A lot of people were fooled." Sherlock said, suddenly feeling very fatigued.

"Anything you need, Sherlock. Anything at all…"

He forced himself to smile. He was getting a little tired of people saying that to him. If someone could give him a tablet to take away the nightmares, the flashbacks, the feeling of disconnection to his life, then he'd take them up on the offer.

###

Mrs. Hudson showed her support in baking. Two weeks later, ten cakes. With John, occasionally Mycroft and even Mike Stamford attempting to get through them, there was simply too much sweetness to finish. Even Sherlock tried a few slices. John ended up boxing up five cakes and taking them to the police station to go around.

Mycroft seemed pleased that Sherlock was back in therapy though didn't bother to hide his irritation that he hadn't gone back to Lehane. Sherlock couldn't help but feel smug satisfaction at that. John showed support by staying in the waiting room, when he could, but the tighter finances meant that John had to find a job. He found part time work in a dental office. Sherlock visited one day and was pleased that all the employees were heterosexual men. Furthermore, none of them were much to look at. He mentioned it that night to John, earning him a tirade.

"Sherlock, I'm _not interested_ in looking at anyone else."

"I simply mention it because in your last job, you had that brief dalliance with Sarah." He couldn't help but grimace at her name.

"And I've already told you that it didn't mean anything to me. I _liked_ her. I wanted it to work. But it couldn't because I realized I wasn't ultimately interested in her. Damn it how many times do I have to tell you? I'm only interested in you. I can't... Sherlock please don't do this. If you're going to feel paranoid every time I go out… Sherlock, please trust me. I told you I would never hurt you, ok? Damn it, I love you so much."

Sherlock mentioned the argument to Emma. He'd finally been able to open up about the relationship between him and John.

"Do you believe John will cheat on you?"

"No, I believe him when he says he would never hurt me. He's right, though. Sometimes I do feel paranoid…"

"Paranoid about what?"

"Paranoid that he'll find someone better. Someone less damaged."

"Sherlock, would you agree that this is coming more from you, than John? You've told me that he constantly reassures you that he loves you deeply. His actions seem to confirm this."

Sherlock frowned. "That's why I don't like emotions. Makes life too messy."

###

So it was on the fourteenth day, he took the taxi back to the apartment, having completely forgotten that today was his thirty-third birthday. He wasn't sure whether therapy was making any difference at all. He still suffered from flashbacks and the occasional nightmare. But at least he had someone who he could talk it through with. He often walked up the stairs, as he did that day, absolutely weakened in body and mind. He longed to have a scolding hot bath and wait for John to come home. He opened the door and stepped in, throwing the house keys on the side banister in the foyer and moving further forward into the lounge room, picking up his skull.

"Wish John was here." He told it. As usual, there was no reply. He put it down and turned to the table. A cake, decorated with candles, obviously from Mrs. Hudson, sat on top. It was then that he remembered it was his birthday.

Two smaller wrapped presents lay to the side. He first opened the one from Mycroft. The card bore a picture of a cute dog with a party hat on its head on the front. Sherlock shook his head at his brother's bad taste. The inscription inside read:

**Sherlock,**

**Happy Birthday**

**Mycroft.**

Mycroft had brought him two very intricately designed, very expensive looking cufflinks.

_If I sell them, it should be enough money so John can have a week off work._

The second present he had to open to find the card. The cover was blank. Inside read:

**_Thought you'd want these back, pretty pretty one._ **

**_M._ **

The 'present' consisted of three blood encrusted bullets.

Sherlock stared at them a long time. These signaled the death of Toby Toll. These were the evidence that he didn't burn himself to death. Was this Moriarty's way of saying that all was forgiven between them? Or was it another part of his bizarre humour? He carefully took them to his back room and hid them in his bottom drawer, then returned to the lounge, sitting down and templing his fingers together. In that instance, the key turned in the lock.

"John!" He stood up, walked over to him. "You're home early."

"Of course. I wanted to be here for your birthday."

"To be honest, I forgot."

John kissed him soundly on the mouth. "Well, luckily I didn't. I thought about it. What does Sherlock like? Not restaurants… well not really. You don't really eat, for one. But then, about a month ago, something happened… it was very small… gave me an idea."

"Hm…?"

"Something about you that I found rather surprising."

"What would that be?"

John smiled. "You'd better get packed. We're going away for the night."

###

John smiled at the lady behind the front desk, heart already thumping with anticipation. Sherlock had already wandered off and was looking with interest at the antique architecture of the lobby.

"Room seven." He said.

"You're a naughty man. Your friend doesn't know, does he?" She winked.

"No, my boyfriend doesn't know. That's the point."

"Oh…well, here's the key. I'd recommend maybe getting a stiff spirit in you in the bar before venturing to the ones upstairs." She laughed.

John thanked her and called Sherlock over.

"The Weston Manor Hotel… John, why have you taken me here?"

"Well," John began as they trudge towards the room. "About a month ago, you were watching this programme on TV about ghosts. You said you found the whole thing fascinating. Even if you don't believe in it."

"You mean… this building is said to be haunted?"

"The room we're going into is said to be haunted, by a nun that was burnt at the stake for having an illicit affair with a priest."

They finally reached room seven and the porter opened the creaky door, leaving their bags just inside before departing. John looked around. It looked harmless enough. The most conspicuous thing in the room was the queen sized bed . Two small bedside tables bearing identical lamps and alarm clocks sat on either side. A cozy bathroom branched off to the right.

He stepped back out from the bathroom to find Sherlock lying down on the bed, his legs dangling off. John lay next to him, then decided he wanted more and draped himself across his chest. He was rewarded by long fingers stroking up and down his back.

"There have been reports throughout the years of lights going on and off-" John said.

"Faulty plumbing."

"Cold spots."

"This is an old building, drafts-"

"As well as unexplained heat-"

"You know, there are certain atmospheres that can cause hallucinations."

John was silent a long moment. Sherlock started to stroke his hair. "I know all these things. I feel rather odd, saying this, particularly as a doctor. But I can't be a complete skeptic, I admit. I've talked to friends. Good friends. And they've told me stories that just chilled me to the bone. Whatever happened, I believed that _they believed_ something strange happened to them."

Sherlock laughed. "John you are adorable. There are no such things as ghosts. But I admit this is a beautiful hotel."

###

Dinner in the vast hall consisted of John, between forkfuls of ravioli, deliberately winding Sherlock up by chatting about the ghost of Mad Maude. In retaliation, Sherlock, between mouthfuls of seafood salad, came up with his skeptical arguments against hauntings. Afterwards, they took a walk in the vast garden. John took Sherlock's hand and felt goofily happy. It was great to be out of the city. Fantastic to see Sherlock relaxed and free from anxiety.

"It wouldn't take too much effort to investigate and find the true reason behind the supposed haunting. I would presume…" Sherlock stopped. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm just thinking about how damned happy I am. I don't think I've ever felt such… such _joy_."

"You feel joy in visiting a _not_ haunted hotel?" Sherlock teased.

John laughed, grabbed the taller man around the waist. "I feel as though I've been secretly searching for years. All my other relationships, something wasn't quite right. But then I met you and, even when I first saw you, I think I knew."

"Knew what?"

"I can see us, just like this, fifty years from now. Still solving cases… maybe out in the country somewhere…"

Sherlock grinned back. "Maybe I'll keep bees. I like honey."

"Sherlock, we've survived through so much. That crazy business with Moriarty, that bastard Toll… I think… no, I _know_ we're meant to be together. I realize I'm going on and on. It's just that you look so damned beautiful under this very odd looking topiary…. I'm just going to kiss you now."

And so he did.

###

Sherlock came up to room seven very much in the mood for making out. After both had changed into their pajamas, brushed their teeth and climbed under the covers, he veritably pounced on John and started passionately kissing him.

"Sherlock…" John said, as they pulled apart, both panting harshly. "I know it's ridiculous. I know it's in my head. But I feel strongly like we're being watched. Plus I'm bloody freezing."

Sherlock also felt the chill, but not the sense of being watched. "Let's give Mad Maude a good show, then."

_Don't tell me you believe this foolishness?_

"Oh John..." He laughed, kissing his neck, feeling the stubble prickle against his lips. "It's alright. I'll protect you from the ghosties."

John would later reflect that if 'Mad Maude' was, indeed, watching, then they certainly gave her a bloody good show.

Afterwards, both lay utterly sated, Sherlock curled up on John's chest.

"Feeling warmer now?"

"Mmm… much better." He lightly stroked Sherlock's back.

"John… with what you said in the garden…It's…I…I feel it too."

"I know. That's why I said it."

"Oh."

"Good night Maude!" John shouted out. "Good night Sherlock. Love you, beautiful." He said, dozily, his slower breathing signaling him gradually succumbing to the first stage of sleep. Sherlock closed his eyes, and decided that, for a genius, he was utterly stupid for even considering that John would even look at another person.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Reference to Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The Adventure of the Norwood Builder', and 'The Sussex Vampire'.

_Six Months Later._

 

"How is he?" Stamford placed his half-full wine glass down on the table.

"Sherlock's a lot better. He started working again, did you know?" John said, twirling his carbonara around his fork.

"Good to hear. Great to hear." He picked up the wine glass again and took a sip, as John brought the fork to his mouth.

His mind was suddenly blighted by a memory of merely two weeks before. Sherlock, kneeling before a body, the other officers cleared from the room.

_"Lestrade's the same but the others… they don't know how to act around me, now. I'm no longer just the freak. I'm the freak that was raped by one of their own."_

John now knew him well enough to hear the stunned distress buried beneath the cold, detached tone.

"I remember that night." Mike brought him back to the present. "What that bastard did to him…To be honest, John, his injuries were so vicious… made me sick."

John internally winced.

"He specifically asked for you." John said. "Said he trusted you the most."

"We do go back a long time." Stamford looked thoughtful and then smiled. "But then, so do you and I."

_This is a good man here._

"We should do this more often." John made an internal vow to mean it, this time.

###

"So?" Mycroft said, stepping into apartment 221b.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock lay on the couch, fingers pointed towards his chin, seemingly deep in meditation.

"Did you get the results?" His brother took off his coat and scarf and hung them on the coat rack by the door.

"Oh… that…' Sherlock jumped up and moved to the kitchen.

"I can presume by your complete calm that you're clear."

Sherlock poked amongst his latest experiment- a dozen human hands- in the fridge, found the orange juice and took it out.

"Cleared of any STDs." He wasn't going to add that the good Doctor Watson was also clear. Sherlock had been insistent that he also be tested.

"Well, I can say that's beyond a relief." Mycroft said, as Sherlock poured the juice into a glass. "How's the therapy going?"

"How's the diet?" Sherlock countered.

"Fine."

"Fine too."

Both brothers stared at each other a long moment.

Mycroft broke the standoff by smiling. "Delighted to hear."

In that instant, the key turned into the slot. Sherlock felt the usual warmth spread through him as John walked through the door.

"Hi Mycroft."

"How's Stamford's wife?" Sherlock asked.

"Well… yes, she is pregnant. That's what I was about to-" John looked, as ever, baffled by his deductions.

"Ok, how did you know, this time?"

_John you are far too easily read._

"How is the consulting business going?" Mycroft turned to Sherlock.

"No." Sherlock said.

"Whatever are you talking about?"

Sherlock saw straight through Mycroft's feigned perplexion.

"I already have a case. John and I will be leaving tonight."

"This one is _very important_ , Sherlock. It involves _national security_."

"Then solve it yourself."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft laughed a little. "I can reward you handsomely."

"It's not a question of reward. It's simply a question of me saying no."

Mycroft looked to John, as though for leniency. The doctor leant against the lounge chair with his arms folded.

"You know I haven't been to a wedding in a while. Will I be made best man?" Mycroft joked.

"Oh do shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock said, not harshly.

"So I can't make you reconsider?"

"No."

Mycroft looked to John, seeming to finally realize that he was beaten.

"I will check in on you again in a couple of days."

Mycroft walked with his usual grace over to the coat stand, put on his coat, wrapped his scarf around and stepped out of the door.

John stepped up to Sherlock and lazily kissed him.

"You know it's not such a bad idea." He said, after they released.

"Forget about Mycroft's case, it will be the usual-"

"I meant getting married."

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not going to justify an outdated concept that has been traditionally used to subjugate women and prejudice against gay and bisexual people. I love you, John and I don't need a piece of paper and a ring of gold to prove it."

"That's quite interesting, because…" John took his wallet out of his pocket and located a gold coin, as well as a pen and paper. "I do have a piece of paper and gold to prove I love you." He scribbled on the paper, and then handed it, as well as the gold coin to Sherlock. Written on the paper was.

_John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes_

Sherlock laughed. "Definitive proof, Watson. Definitive proof."

###

Mycroft climbed back into his backseat, suddenly aware that he wasn't alone.

"Have I been forgiven my little bit of _naughtiness_?" The man opposite him mock pouted.

"I really need to better screen my drivers." Mycroft sighed. "What did you do? Threaten or bribe them to get into the car?"

"Both." Moriarty smiled.

"I'm surprised you've taken so long to try contact me or Sherlock. It's been at least six months."

"Other affairs, unfortunately. But it's _oh so good_ to be back. Tell me, how did it feel to know that Sherlock favours John's life over yours?" Moriarty's eyes went cold.

"What is it you want?" He asked, voice equally as icy.

"I've been watching the great detective. He seems a lot better, wouldn't you agree? The therapy is working. Or could it be because he's all loved up with his great Watson? I'm glad. Means I can start the game up very soon. Maybe wait until after Christmas, though. Always good to play after a nice big meal. And I do like to watch Sherlock work. John and Molly aren't his only admirers, you know."

"Leave my brother alone." Mycroft said slowly.

"Oh but he's so much fun! You both are. By the way, that case you've been working on. General Hooper is the killer. You'll find the missing documents locked in his safety deposit box. The combination is 3316."

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because I'm bored." Moriarty shrugged. "You tell that pretty pretty brother of yours I said hello. Ciao, Mycroft. I'll see you soon."

He swiftly climbed out of the vehicle and was predictably gone before Mycroft could even begin to trace him.

###

"I have no doubt it'll be a match to Mcfarlane." Anderson said to Lestrade, who knelt down to examine the bloody thumbprint more carefully.

"It's not enough." Donovan frowned. "What we really need is the body."

Lestrade looked over to the left and frowned down at the charred remains of what was supposedly the victim. Echoes of Toby Toll, again. He could sense the friction amongst the gathering of officers. Something was not quite right.

Laughter sounded behind them. All heads turned in its direction. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were walking towards the police tape. John appeared to mumble something to Sherlock, who laughed once more, then whispered something back.

"If anything, he's even more annoying now that he's found _true love_." Anderson snarled. Donovan laughed in response. Lestrade deliberately refused to respond. It was still less than a year since Sherlock's attack. Though he seemed, for the most part, to be recovering, there were moments when he saw the terror in the young man's eyes; the horrid certainty that his personal being had been breached.

Sherlock stepped under the police tape.

"You got my message?" Lestrade asked.

"Mm hmm…" He could already see Sherlock's mind working. He bent down and examined the ash on the floor.

"We found a thumb print. We're pretty sure it will belong to our suspect." Donovan said.

"I spoke to Mcfarlane, myself and he seems quite persistent that he's innocent." Sherlock didn't bother to look at her.

"They all say that." Anderson scoffed.

"John." Sherlock now moved to examine the bloody thumbprint. "How easy would you say would it be for someone to obtain a man's thumbprint from, say, a glass he's been holding then replicate it onto, say, a plaster wall?"

"Oh come on! Do you really believe someone would go to all that trouble?"Anderson's face had turned magenta.

"I'd say yes it's… possible…" John said.

Sherlock lay face down on the floor, face intense, as though listening for something.

He suddenly stood up and walked over to the open fireplace at the far left corner of the room. He lifted up a log of wood and placed it down where he'd just lay.

"Sherlock… what the hell are you doing?" Lestrade said.

"Messing up our crime scene, that's what!" Anderson responded

"Help me, John." Sherlock said, walking over to the fireplace to pick up another piece of wood.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, as Sherlock put the wood down by the first piece of wood.

"Anyone have a lighter?"

"Oh this is ridiculous." Donovan shook her head.

"Here, use mine." Lestrade was intrigued where Sherlock was going with this. He handed it to the young detective, who bent down and set the wood alight, causing the others around to start shouting in consternation. Sherlock ignored them, stepped back and started to yell.

"Fire! Fire!"

In that instance, the ground before them started to bulge, then lift. All watched in astonishment when the secret trapdoor buried in the floorboards opened and a bald headed man rushed out.

"I can't believe it." Lestrade said, as the man went to run to the door, and then, finally noticing that he was surrounded by police officers, meekly put his hands up.

"There's your 'dead body'." Sherlock smirked.

###

"That was… fantastic!" John said, upon entering 221b Baker Street. Sherlock took off his scarf and coat and smiled back at him. "You constantly surprise me." He started to laugh. "The look on Anderson's face!"

Sherlock smiled once more but something was distant in his eyes. John felt his stomach churn.

"Something wrong?"

"No." Sherlock said, but his expression said something different.

"How was therapy yesterday?" John never asked any more. Mainly because it seemed to be working. Sherlock had been, for the most part, acting like himself. Though he still got the occasional flashback or nightmare, John at least now knew how to cope. He simply held Sherlock until his heart rate slowed down, until his labored breath was under control. The punching bag they'd installed in the back room also helped to work off any excess rage.

"Fine." Sherlock sat down on the couch and templed his fingers together. "Oh, I forgot to say, I got a message from our dear friend today. Seems he's back in town." He handed John his mobile. Feeling slightly nauseous, John flicked through until he found his most recent message. He suddenly felt the urge to give the punching bag a good work out.

**_Miss me, pretty?_ **

**_The game will be on, soon enough._ **

**_M._ **

He handed it back to Sherlock, and then climbed next to him, putting his hand behind him to massage his back.

"Are you sure everything's alright? Is it Moriarty?"

"Moriarty… No."

John kissed his ear. "Then what is it?"

Sherlock turned and kissed John on the lips, running his hands through his short hair. The kiss deepened, Sherlock reaching to pull John closer to him.

"Are you sure?" John asked, as Sherlock started to kiss him on the neck.

Sherlock pulled back. "Let's go to the bedroom."

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John asked again.

"I want you." Sherlock's pupils were dilated. "Let's go."

John allowed Sherlock to stand him up and hold his hand as they walked upstairs to their now shared bedroom. Sherlock's old bedroom now housed the majority of his experiments.

Once upstairs, Sherlock started to ferociously kiss John, then pushed him down on the bed, climbing on top of him and tearing at his shirt. As much as John loved this new, dominant Sherlock, he found himself a little unnerved.

"Wait…" He cupped Sherlock's face. "What's going on here?"

"I want…" Sherlock suddenly sat up, so his knees on either side of John's waist. "I'm ready."

'No, we don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"I want to." Sherlock insisted. "You told me you'd show me what it's meant to be like. I want to feel what other people feel. How it's supposed to feel."

"I just I don't want to hurt you or… I just need to be a hundred percent sure this is what you want."

"What I want is for you to give me my 'first time'. What he did, didn't count. I know that now. It had nothing to do with love or lust. He wanted to hurt me, humiliate me. I know you would never do that."

While John felt the usual rage spread through his body at the mention of that loathsome figure, he also felt pride at Sherlock for attempting to conquer his obvious fears.

"Ok.' John relented. "Tell me the safe word."

"Salt."

"Good. You say it, the moment you start to feel uncomfortable, ok?"

Sherlock nodded. John could see the slight fear in the pale irises.

"It's ok." John kissed his neck, as he began to undo his shirt. "It's going to be wonderful. You see." He flicked the shirt open and kissed his way down Sherlock's body, unzipping his trousers and boxers and pulling them down. He openly admired Sherlock's naked body, earning a blush from the young detective.

"Damn, you're beautiful…" He murmured, then kissed down his stomach, eager to kiss and fondle and suck the organ that made Sherlock moan and groan. The detective didn't disappoint.

"John… more…" He sighed, hand running through John's hair, urging him to go quicker.

Sherlock started to moan so he picked up pace. Finally, after a few minutes, he pulled up again. Sherlock looked at him quizzically, as he pulled off the remains of his shirt and unzipped his trousers. Sherlock did likewise with his own clothes. Both were now naked before each other. Sherlock trembled slightly, breath a little labored.

"I've got…" Sherlock reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out lube.

"Ok." John suddenly realized that he was nervous. What if he didn't perform well? No condoms needed, seeing as they were both clear, which at least took that hassle out of the way. He leant down and kissed Sherlock; gently tugging at him as he tenderly probed his opening with his fingers, first one, then two, then three. Sherlock's trembling increased.

John pulled back and started to pile the lube onto his own erection. "It's ah… it's probably better if you're on your front. The angle… it just hurts less." He couldn't believe they were having this conversation.

" _He_ fucked me on my back." Sherlock said blandly.

John winced. "We can stop. We don't have to-"

"No. Keep going." Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach. John bent over and kissed him messily on the back, reaching around to stroke his flagging erection. He felt his lover tense as he put his weight on his back, tenderly kissing his neck. "We can stop whenever you want."

"No. Keep going."

John responded by continuing to stroke him, kissing his neck and shoulders. Sherlock started to pant.

"Yes, please…" Sherlock said.

John positioned himself and slowly slid in. Sherlock tensed once more, breath exerted.

"I don't know if I can…"

"Ok…" John started to pull out again.

"No! Keep going. Keep going."

John went in as slowly as he could, not happy that he was clearly discomforting his lover. He finally came to a rest and simply lay on Sherlock's back, unmoving, continuing to stroke him, to kiss his shoulders and neck. 'You ok?" He whispered. Sherlock nodded. John started to move, slowly at first, then faster. Suddenly, Sherlock jumped, groaned loudly. John realized that he'd hit the right spot. He concentrated all of his focus on hitting it again and again, his hand stroking on the other side, causing his partner double pleasure.

"Oh John, that's…" Sherlock moaned. John grinned and sped up his strokes. "Oh! Oh!"

_That's it beautiful, that's it. Moan for me beautiful._

Sherlock's moans grew louder.

_Damn you're fucking hot, babe._

Sherlock was now moving with him, keeping tempo with his thrusts.

_Come for me beautiful. That's it. That's it._

Sherlock cried out loudly. John felt his seed spurt all over his hand and stomach. His partner satiated, John concentrated on finding his own release.

"Ah Ah!"

"John…" Sherlock sighed.

John could no longer control himself. He thrusted frantically, his moans building.

"Sherlock!" He screamed, finding release so hard it was almost painful. He collapsed on Sherlock's back, unable to move a long moment. Finally, he pulled up and very slowly pulled out. Feeling wetness on his cheeks, he wiped at his eyes.

_I actually cried. That's something._

He quickly wiped his face dry and Sherlock turned around to face him, a lazy smile on his face.

"That was… nice."

"Nice?" John lay his head down on his chest, resting his body on Sherlock's. "It was bloody wonderful." He suddenly looked up. "You sure it was alright?"

"There was a moment when I felt… _him_. But I told myself that _this is John_. To begin with… yes it did hurt. But then, when I got past that…it was… yes, it was bloody wonderful!"

"Good. Good. I'm glad." John kissed his chest.

"You've now got my semen all over your stomach."

"Probably." John said, not particularly caring.

Sherlock suddenly wrapped his long legs around John's waist. "I have you now. You can't get away."

"I see. Well, we'll see about that. "A few months before, John had discovered, to his delight, that Sherlock was ticklish. He now started to take advantage of that fact, relentlessly torturing the consultant while he squawked and laughed.

###

Mrs. Hudson wasn't sure what she was hearing, at first. The block was old, so had its share of noises. She dismissed it as creaky floorboards, or the structure settling. But then the noise started to be constant, metal squeaking, followed by groans.

Mrs. Hudson rolled over in her bed and covered her ears with her pillow. Sure, she was happy for the boys for clearly taking that step but did they have to let the whole damned block know?

Sherlock cried out louder.

_Good, hopefully that means-_

Then John's voice.

"Ah! Ah!"

Mrs. Hudson started to laugh to herself, as the moans grew louder, ending in a final triumphant cry of

"Sherlock!"

Then blessed silence.

_Good. Now I can get some damned sleep!_

She didn't want to think about the embarrassment of when she saw them, the next day.

###

John found himself watching his lover, peaceful in his sleep. The blanket had fallen down, exhibiting the pale line of his back, the gentle curve of the tip of his buttocks. He leant over and kissed him softly between his shoulder blades.

Sherlock rolled and opened his eyes.

"Good morning, beautiful." John said softly, stroking his hair.

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, yawning.

"Ah about six thirty."

"Mm…more sleep." He closed his eyes once more. "We don't have to get up till eight."

John struggled to recall what they were meant to be doing, that day. Then it came back to him. A case had come to Lestrade's desk concerning a baby supposedly being bitten by a vampire. Lestrade had, certainly, payed no attention to it but Sherlock seemed rather excited. He insisted on going up to the very manor in which the incident occured and investigating the case, himself.

"Stop looking at me and get some rest. You'll need it today. We're going to find ourselves a vampire."

John smiled, leant down and kissed his nose. "Do you think we were a bit loud, last night?"

"Most probably. The walls are thin. I can sometimes hear Mrs. Hudson snoring downstairs."

"Oh no." John covered his face with his hands. "I'm going to be mortified when I next see her."

"Ah well…"

John smiled, content to simply watch him.

"I love you." He said.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Is this what happens after great sex? You sit there and stare at me with an incredibly dopey expression?"

"Well, right now, I feel like doing cartwheels down the street!"

"Mmm…" Sherlock smiled. "It was _that good_ , wasn't it?"

"It was very brave of you." John said. "I can't even imagine how hard it must have been."

"Hard being the correct word." Sherlock's face broke into a mischevious smile. It broke upon seeing the seriousness in John's face. "I trusted you that it would be alright. To be honest, it went beyond my expectations." Sherlock closed his eyes once more.

John was content to watch him. Sherlock was right. He did have a stupid dopey expression on his face. He couldn't help it.

"I beat him. He wanted to destroy me. He failed. I've got you. I've got my work. I've got Mycroft… as irritating as my brother is, at times. I'm still Sherlock Holmes." He opened his eyes and put his head up to kiss John. "I wouldn't have made it without you, John."

"I think you underestimate yourself." John said. "Now sleep or I'll tickle you."

Sherlock smiled, put his head down, once more. "Are you going to get some sleep or are you going to watch me some more?"

"I think I'm content to just watch you. You're very watchable." John teased. "I'll just lie here and think about how beautiful you are. Then I'll make a plan for the day. I'll plan to get up at eight. I'll have breakfast. You won't. Then we'll take a train out to the country side to look into your vampire case, where you'll undoubtedly come up with some brilliant deductions, which other people will think are crazy. Then we'll have dinner at a nice restaurant nearby. Then we'll find a nice motel and, if you want, I'll make brilliant love to you and we'll both wake up all of the people around us. How's that for a plan?"

"Sounds great. Especially the last bit."

John laughed and kissed Sherlock once more on the nose. He lay down on his back and was rewarded with Sherlock moving to half lie on top of him, head resting on his chest. John pulled the blanket over them both, feeling the heat of the consultant's naked body on his, as he wrapped an arm around his back.

"What happened to watching me?" Sherlock asked.

"This feels better."

"Mm… true…thank you John for… last night."

_I should be thanking you. That was incredible._

"Thank you for… just… being you. Every day I wake up and I see you and I'm reminded how wonderful life can be."

"Sherlock…" John hugged him tighter. "Bloody hell, that was… I love you so much. So much."

"Mmm… love you too."

"We have to get up in an hour. We'd better get some sleep."

"Mmm… is that doctor's orders?"

"No, it's more that I'm really intrigued to find this supposed vampire of yours."

He could feel Sherlock's rumble of laughter against his chest. John closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift off, knowing that Sherlock was protected and, most of all, loved. Whatever came their way, be it demonical hounds, vampires or serial rapists, he knew that love would see them through

_Fin._

 


End file.
